Harvesting

As a child in a churchish home I learned to love a lord I could not see Was he there? Absolutely! Apparently. Where do I find him? What if he’s not? Where do I find her? What if she’s not? He? Her? It? Every Sunday we would sit In our sparkling Sunday best Bonnets. Ties. Polished shoes. Wiped noses. Buttoned vests. Worshipping. We kids sat still. Furtively counting beams or windows. No child moved then. Those days were different After the war. When we’re far from those who bleed the memory recedes as does control. Now it is all noise. I go to a temple. I see crowds. I smell smoke. I go to a church I see crowds I smell incense. I go to a mosque. I see crowds I smell nothing. Which is real? Does it matter?