A poem of prayer
So much of work
Has been heads down
Focus
On all the minutia
Built up
To mechanize
A routined output
I see this
Even as I know
It will all crumble
Into the dust
Of obscurity
As all things do.
Maybe the real
Work of my life
Has been to
Slow into stillness.
To befriend death
Sit with her
On the bench
Beside the river.
Her laugh
Light dancing on small waves.
Her joy
Gulls swooping in a crystal sky
Her patience
Seasons pulled on solar tides.
Her delight
Fingers plunged deeply
Into the rich loam
Beneath the pine tree
Nourishing from
The decayed work
Of all this living
This has to be
What prayer is
Not knowing.
Coming to the end
With the sweet taste
Of love dripping down
My chin
Eyes full of stars
And wonder
While my body
Slowly releases
All its earthly striving
Meeting my cherished
Friend
Disrobe myself
Of all the certainties
That didn’t really fit
Anyway
Free to open
Each hidden doorway
Within her cryptic smile.