Everything in the following poem I personally witnessed last fall. I was driving home from a nearby tiny country church in my motorhome. Both the transport trucks and I came upon her at the same time at the bottom of a dip in the highway. We all swerved and missed her and each other by some miracle, for which I am very thankful. Friends ran out and hauled her away.
An old wooden church with a steeple
in a small village by a river,
Sunday morning, and a faithful five
One hauls on the bell
while stainglass windows
sing praises in beams of colored light
to the Good Shepherd.
The pipe organ swells,
as it has for over one hundred years.
On a busy highway nearby
a fifteen year old girl in a white sweatshirt
spread herself face up
in the lane of oncoming traffic
waiting for a careless transport truck
to take her any way he would.
Two came growling over the hill at sixty,
she shook her fists to the sky--
Five saints attending,
some Sundays only three,
remembering when the church
was full of families
with fifteen year old girls
all dressed up,
and transport trucks
kept solemn troth nearby,
When one living sacrifice on Golgatha
had been enough.