In the story

Christian Century, April 19, 2000 by Laurie Zimmerman

   everything, even trees, becomes something
   else, eager wood tumbles from hillsides
   to fashion a manger, then a sturdy boat
   filled up with weary fishermen, finally
   a crossbeam to hang a body on.
   It is 9 A.M. and the women
   pinched into their suits and slingbacks
   keep from yawning by studying
   the row of bows and beads and wispy chignons
   in front of them. The men, used
   to boardrooms, squint patiently.
   For the first time in years snow
   hasn't fallen overnight or ice cursed
   the cars on their way to Easter services.
   Each pew is frilly as a summer field
   nods with pinks and creams no one's seen
   in half a year. Sun springs
   forth boldly through the patterned glass
   and the clean, coiffed children peek
   through criss-crossing motes and wonder.
   They swing short legs and scuff
   the planks beneath their seats.
   It is an abstraction of light
   that, because they are children, allows
   before them ancient dances and the fall
   of so much tall and lithesome wood.