This white wasteland
of snow scours
the trees and streets
of this little town
in middle America.
In sheets it
sifts and shifts
off the slanted
roof and perfectly
bricked walls
of this holy house.
Wholly removed and
without consequence –
a place of words
loudly spoken and impassioned,
but not ears or
eyes to this
scouring wasteland
that will never penetrate
this place or its words
grown wearisome and dull.