**This is a featured poetry piece by Sophia Johnson-Grimes**
I feel a Renaissance
Beginning inside me.
My bitter bones filling
Creative juices spilling,
Staining.
The archdeacon cries and moans
“Heresy!” he calls
As I turn my back on the hallowed halls
And slam the wrought iron door
Behind me.
I accept the glory of the sun,
She welcomes me back with open arms
And the mountains weep with joy
At my return.
And I think back to the cold
Where doubt shadowed the day
And clarity was a relic of the past.
I hold these days in
the palm of my hand,
And they slip through my fingers
Like sand,
Like time.
And I hold them close.
And I let them fall.
The promised land waits for me;
My own apple tree,
My own basilica,
My own statue of David.
All within reach of my wine stained palms.
The road may not be smooth,
But this time I am ready.