Poetry

as played by a foursquare
old Mennonite on a sturdy
and scarred upright piano
with precision and thunder

does not call up the glitter
of a golden dome at sunset,
sheep and tents in the wilderness,
or even a falafel stand on a street corner,

but something about those solid
chords, the dogged confidence in
the reign of grace amid
drought-defeated fields—

even the shame of my timid hopes
is overwhelmed by radiance.

Nina Forsythe lives in Frostburg, Md.