scattered prayers
like my fellow
frail and useless humans I have
scattered my little prayers over
selected areas of the land on which I live.
more specifically:
lupin pods and poppy, coneflower
and others unnamed, broadcast with seeming casual hand
as if nothing depends on it
on bare dirt, awaiting frost and freezing and
then the spring, may there be another spring.
this I have done, in good conscience and ample
faith brown seed on brown earth will,
with sun and the turning of a few calendar pages—
add the touch of the divine—
bring forth colour to attract the butterfly and eye.
pine, sky, human
made of letters
shaped of curves and angles, sounds
out of the big bowl of forgotten time,
here I go mute, shake out
a handful of prayer
as if it all is not random,
and await the spring
(may there be another spring)
as I stand frail and nearly useless
under the blackboard sky, in the chill
of how little we know—
and how much less than that—
control.