Angel on the Precipice of Goodwill

Every December she slips into a cathedral

No regular, she has only an inkling of rites

Watches and does a careful genuflection

Or reasonable facsimile; some years

She even takes communion – savouring

The wafer – the host – it’s just vanilla

She smiles to herself but feels it’s karma

When she kneels to pray and barks her shins

On the wooden prayer place so unused

To the pose is she; it’s a subtle rebuke

From God, she knows, but figures it’s

Worth it just to be there

Afterwards she goes to the mission;

She is filled with a feeling of almost amorous

Goodwill and ready to serve soup

To the less fortunate

From tables laden with hearty fare

Vegetable soup and crusty breads

She finds herself chuckling at the trivets

Beneath the pots, so like the ones

From her childhood – cast iron

Teapot shapes – sturdy enough

Then and certainly sturdy enough now

Not unlike herself, she thinks.

inspired by Sunday Whirl Wordle 33