A single patch of cornflower blue left on the crumbling plaster,
one wide brushstroke that escaped the theft of color.
Gold not yet scrubbed from an arch in the women’s balcony.
A short length of the missing woodwork;
below, diagonals of broken lath.
We feel the walls for what our eyes don’t tell us.
Here the ark was, flanked by tall twin posts.
If worshippers suddenly arose we would know the prayers.
Raw wood, dirt floor, a roof that lets in sun and water—
all this is common. Every day barns list.
A kindness, really.
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