Poem by Megan Brown
Here all the windows point to heaven rising steeples to remind the body within which way to exhale when the spirit shakes loose.
On a clear day the white reticulation, touches the sky
anchoring paradise. The windows are all that is left of a parsonage, devoid of personage for so long that the dust is a month deep, perpetual penance of the hands, paid to breathe free. She is guided by light leaning through the painted glass, now bleached to Easter pastels. Her first home now her last home Her scripture rewritten into sincerity on a summer-
soaked floor with a haze of blue and red tinting the skin. Faith returned with doily-draped tables and rosary beads. A window-open waft of Vanilla warmed in the oven, incense for a sweeter God For months, this home was blessed, then the last exhale carried her soul to the windows, and she knew which way to go. A cerulean glow of afternoon melodies from the open chapel dancing over asphalt press against the panes of promise land she skims over and those steepled windows reach for her, reticulations raining red-green-blue
on the floorboards, splintering now, without her softness.
But the door still greets each guest with sweet, a vanilla-remembrance of Faith for those who can no longer hold her.
About Megan Brown
Megan Brown is an emerging writer currently residing in Northern Virginia. She loves reading, Netflix, and playing with her two black cats, Nyx and Stella. Megan is a proud alumna of Roanoke College and has been previously published in Penumbra, Slippery Elm, and Wingless Dreamer.