Sonnet on the Death of a Baptist Preacher*

You were a mushroom from the desert floor
rising. We stood still in trenches and saw
the Shekinah, the glory, which no more
filled the temple, the pulpit or the law.

A cloud of ash filled the noon day sky
heading for Nevada. The shepherd soon
would be without his sheep. Even now lie
their carcasses beneath a wine soaked moon.

The brightness hurt our eyes. Through dark glass
we saw things you didn't, though you were
a priest, a prophet. A critical mass
you served each Sunday while you were here.

You lie quiet, dressed up in full parade,
and I wonder, "Of what were we afraid?"

*This sonnet is not about a particular person. The subject is symbolic, however, of a certain type of preacher.