it is a particularly long day
the sermon for Sunday already written
today he thinks today would have been
the sort of day she would have visited
and they would have sat by this window
drinking tea and talking the afternoon away
an easy conversation on politics–
the local variety shaded as it was in gossip
which the church officially frowned on
but would never survive without
he stares out of the window 
noticing his tea has gotten too cold
if this was one of her visiting days
cold tea would never have happened
the priest was always an excellent host
to others though rarely to himself
he thinks of her long slender body
her red hair catching the wind off her shoulder
the way she looked back that one
last time and waved good-bye
he'd felt his heart race at moments
when their conversations went silent
she would look into his eyes
and though he didn't believe the Devil
was in her he believed that look was an invitation
the father found his mind drifting over
the bible of his mind for the appropriate passage
to recite at the gate of evil but his body didn't
stiffen as one might expect at such a gate
his body perspired under the seal of his dog collar
he would always slide a finger in 
pull at it stretching his neck in a manner 
that suggested his discomfort with such heat
he now stares out the window 
at an old elm tree preparing for winter
but its shadow bends and curves
along the broken ground reminding 
him again of her slender frame
the red leaves swaying in the breeze
out of habit he pulls the tea cup to his lips
grimacing at the even colder tea
and the father knows from the shadow
of his heart that she had to leave