It was the chill of winter that remained within the temple of great summer dreams—froze the waters on the stoup, and snuffed the candles on the sconces. Opaque and hazy fog endured, heavy with the cold imbued, roaming across the floors to every crevice dark and old, while the grasses out across the yard grew tall and green and bees kept busy on the weeds.
A preacher stood aloft upon the icy pulpit, preaching sermons to the empty pews, a bible in one hand, and a fist comprised the other. The stillness echoed amens in response to his high passion, faithful to a fault. Hallelujah sang the bells that’d been ringing since the summer’s dawn, calling for the ghosts of winters past, that would never come.
Out among the weeds, hidden in the shade of laden trees, a squirrel listened to the bells and sermons that withheld a passing on. The squirrel found its way into the temple, up the aisle, and on the icy pulpit where the preacher stood aloft. It whispered in the preacher’s ear that none has come and none will ever come, for frost had taken summer’s roots.
The preacher smile and kept on preaching. He knew the frost had taken summer’s roots, and the long abiding cold would last, but he wasn’t preaching for the ghosts of winters past. He also knew that long as he declaimed, the cold would last, the fog would never lift. His words were made for him alone, and he was awaiting frost to take him too.
Gutter Galley 