The Red Doors

I saw an old country church
that had big red doors.
I asked my father,”Why did
they paint them red for?”
My father looked at me as though he knew,
then said, apologetically, “I don’t have a clue:’
We were on the road, and the church
was on the way back, but I still needed a
reason for my colorful fact.
I sat in the back seat, motionless, silently.
I thought to myself what the answer could be.

The color of red could have some sort of meaning.
Maybe it’s the color of blood as Jesus was bleeding.
As people would walk through the doors, their spirits
could be cleaned.
This was a good enough reason for the big
red doors it seemed to me
Or maybe the church just ran out of the white paint.
The preacher should pray in the name of a saint.

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