In the red hymnal, angled sideways on the stacking grey chair,
There were crumbs from last week’s communion.
I look at them.
I think they are the leftovers that filled twelve disciple’s baskets,
Wandered down from Galilee to this small Washington town.
This is the heavenmade bread that will last forever,
Handed down in the hymnal from the greying to the young,
And when we open to page 204,
There is the life-bread of our fathers,
Brown and crusty.
I plant another crumb-crop.
sprattscribbler 