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.