The Church Is Not the Building

A white blossom, purpled
at the edges like penance,
lies under an unbloomed tree.
Maybe a bee got greedy, then
dropped the petals amid ascension,
demi-god wary of nectar’s nature.
Then it’s time for a world bared.
Fallen leaves prefer to congregate,
crowding curbs and gutters like
repentant sinners alongside a river.