And all our wintry spirits thaw,
our hard edges melt and
                      their logical boundaries flow out of shape
                                 as we turn bronzed faces to the Son.

                              Across the whole land church summer camps
                           are alive with the sounds of splashing and prayers.
                             Around campfires. marshmallows take on a tan
                                 and spirited singing singes the stars.

                                 In the hot city among burning street,
                             the loneliness of poverty walks among pigeons
                                to the Church for help or supper, a word
                                       or a new pair of socks.

                                And prayers, like mission and service,
                               rise on feathered wings or waves of heat
                                     in thanksgiving or petition
                                   to repaint the world as a garden.

                                                                                       - David Allan -