A Prayer Transcribed
image of Louie with me outside
She sits in a gray Adirondack chair on the cement patio
behind the house, fenced and small as prayer.
Jingles from a collar. Louie V prances,
a white-and-black prince, a bark lower than a yip,
somewhere apart from the baritone of the yap.
Steiner, retired general, sits at her left,
fifteen years of slow valor, CBD to still the ache.
He alerts the yard with a deeper, measured sound,
a hymn of guard-duty and long patience.
Under high, hazy clouds the color of her hair,
auburn leaves drift almost lethargic,
as if they too know now is the time for prayer.
They pause in falling; the Father’s gentle hand becomes a breeze,
sweeping the small noise away until presence remains.
She begins. Holy Father —
thank you for bringing me through the day.
For hearing me when I am only halfway present.
For patience that hurts as it calls us home.
For sustaining Yourself in us, for new desires of the heart.
Thank you for being more than I was told.
Thank you for answering — always.
Thank you for the hunger to write, to seek, to stay.
Thank you for being enough.
She leans back, looking at some distance within herself,
flexing her hands before settling again.
“In all moments, in all measured time, you are present;
You speak the end from the beginning, declaring the unseen.
Why ask for what You already know?”
She chuckles; a small mirth traces her face.
Then she turns and looks at us through our phones —
those hazel eyes like lamps; she looks not at us but at Him through us.
We startle, draw back, and a phone slips from a hand
As always Dust,
To you,
For you,
From Him,
In me.