You don’t pray

icicleToday it appeared
like an icicle sword
piercing
into the snow
 
you don’t pray
 
for peace
or your mama 
nor your children
or grandchildren
nor anyone else
you love
 
you don’t say
“thanks”
for your breath
or the love that you’re given
or for
orange sherbet sunsets
and
plenty to eat
or
the way the light
falls on the leaves
every autumn
 
what is it like
to 
be grateful inside
but leave it 
to reflect 
back on you
not
the mystery
 
well
maybe the trees
I suppose 
they can receive it
but
I’m not even sure
you do that
 
I suppose this shouldn’t
hurt
… certainly not me
 
it’s just a belief
you might say
 
but I
want you to
pray for me
 
though it’s selfish
to want 
to be held
in that care
when so many
others already
have that
covered
 
I remember once
in a fearful 
season
I asked you
to hold me
and pray
 
which you did
I can still feel it today
 
that was such
an act of love
even 
though 
you did not
believe it
 
Still
it leaves me
like snow
pierced with an icicle sword
wondering
what language
you speak
 
 
 
 
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This entry was posted in God, Poetry, Spirituality and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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