UNSUNG HYMN
Young Sister Celina flashes by
on her antique Schwinn,
gears and chain a nest of bees,
her habit is hiked up,
two loaves of French bread
on the chrome carrier.
After her fast passing,
the wind that chases behind
is like the last note
of a piano key held,
a verse that resonates
from a boyhood hymn
kept holy and hidden inside,
recalled by the closure of eyes,
the pull of a single deep breath.
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