On a Sunday Morning in January

Free of her father,

she sings, dances, bounces

in the salt and pepper snow.

No choir sings with her,

not even the birds accompany

her voice on this frozen day.

When she nears the door, 

her father puts one finger

to his lips, takes her hand.

She should stop singing now.

Stop dancing now.

Stop bouncing now.

In the neat, organized rows

every person sits in silent reverence.

But the little girl

fiddles with her Minnie Mouse mittens,

flips through the rustling hymnal,

shakes the beads in her hair,

and ruffles her pink polka-dot skirt.

Her father cannot stop her–

This solemn scene is beyond her.

Though the statues with their folded hands

and bowed heads surround her,

she taps her ballerina slippers, she escapes–

twirling, twirling, twirling, she joins 

the stained saints who lack, but yearn

for such whim, such merriment, such life

in the line headed towards the now-joyful altar.