The Church Of My Soul Poem by Cristina M. Moldoveanu

those who took care of the convent’s garden
left the dry trees
at god’s will ~~
no more sunrise apples there
only a few empty nests abjured their shadow
on the straight road in the middle

as if the half paralyzed world
raised with all its might to sit up ~~
the rest of the garden bore fruit

it had been hard to climb the stairs
on my knees
but as a good christian ~~
how am i supposed to descend them my lord
the same way