Colors stain the field. A magnolia tree

vibrates through its center with a quieting

rustle reigning over a neighborhood

desperately trying to be saved from decay.

Lone travelers are silent in their crumbling troubles,

they blight the space before the house of the cross,

rounded by the purple veil that grace its arms.

The patrons trickle in with their black crowns

and capes of white, breathing glad tidings

for a new morning allowed to their old bones.

Their faith is love, tested and refined,

but possibly chiming

passionate solitude

made into a cage

of brilliance.