it was beneath the porch in summer that someone once told me

how Sister Bertha met Jesus singing hymns on a fast-moving train

how holding her hand she knew that He understood her well

her papery nature, her aching heartsong and her root-grown pain

they said it loud and proud that Sister Bertha loved winking at God

 with her blood-pumping faith she knew He'd always wink back

she had lots of lace-backed visons on spider webs and sunshine

and no amount of twist and bound doubt curved her glorious track

 child said amid staring crowds, "Bless me, Aunt Bertha, bless me, do."

prayers rose and burned in air before reaching the steel grey of the sky

she clasped his thin shoulder and looked up with him and sighed

unsure of his kept notions, his wailing and his wonderings why

why man and woman and even blind child, looked up to find God

when He really resided deep and yellow and somewhere inside

this she expected them to know, as she always knew from age twenty,

 to have wings in colors of love she must become his new bride 

"Bertha was never alone,"  they told me in warm firefly nights

and i dreamt all night long of her sermon's serene flow

as they touched vacant souls on their mysterious flights

when dear Sister Bertha became God's own angel aglow