Prayer

I want the simple cross marking the coming
of the river; knowledge of famine
or harvest. I’ve walked this desert,
almost given myself under pear trees, in the sand,
almost floated away on my belly into the sea
of dead. I have known all the shades of blue,
how they climb into windows, cross the river
valley, squirm in eyes of men. From
the towers of our earth, I watched, God of pleasure,
of plenty, of fertile fields and wombs, of wine, cheese,
and long Saturday afternoons, the sun bring blue
back to everything. I stayed here, below your
reaching arm, begging you to bring back some
basic promise: wood-smoke or high-tide.