The locked door tells me what I need to know:
Where once was community, the members
Like snow
have drifted away, forgotten.
No need to open if not time for prayers.
Then, one by one, old timers still around
Will shuffle down
the sad ice-coated street
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Holding cane or walker or their friend’s love
Fighting freeze of darkness and wondering
If there will be enough
at least ten men
To say a proper thank you to our God.
If less, we mute our most important thoughts.
