Now That I Have Wings

Now that I have wings
it is hard to imagine
pinning them down on Sunday mornings
long enough to squeeze
into the pews of a cavern
filled with hopeful seekers—
the fear and anxiety
of doing it wrong
dripping from the fibers
of all the garments
like sheep come in from the fields
wet into the barn
and hungry for spring grasses
in the middle of a long winter night.

There is no shepherd here for them.
Only empty stalls to be filled by wooly bodies.

I long to comfort them,
these gentle beasts who have no idea
what it is like to fly.

My hand brushing the tops
of steaming heads in this cold place
could give some assurance
like the smile of a stranger.
Instead they rush past me,
my legs bruised
by their panic to follow the others
toward the security of the place
they come to each night.

Blind
they will never
look up
and only bolt
at the sight of my shadow
that passes in front of them
while their heads are bowed
toward the earth below.