Prayer By The Back Door

When I think on my ways,
I turn my feet to your testimonies  
~Psalm 119: 59

This threshold, this morning floor,
and all the heels about to part
from here are dear to you. 
You know our skip and jump,
our step and stumble-stump

and by hesitance or haste
we know the rap and rustle
of your gait.  Whether in a dell
or on a mound, may your
footfall be a welcome sound.

We confess, our toes have trod
on others—forgive our trespass,
as also we forgive.  In the midst
of break or blister, splinter, sprain
or twist, may we find rest.

We falter at this door until
we fall on you.  Turn our paths
to your statutes, give life to arch
and ankle, pursue your servants’
feet; we hasten and do not delay. 

Miscarriage Again

Death,
    you are the enemy, you took two friends,
and if you can hold them you have seized the wind.
We weep for ones taken, and are as shaken
by bleak absence as by your uninvited presence.

At dinner, we sit around the table with living kin.
We pray and, when our eyes open to each other’s faces, 
we linger over life in a womb—with two fingers
we make small guesses—No bigger than this?  Yes! 

    Death, we do not want for grief,
but there is a Wing you may not reach beneath. 
There, your hand cannot grasp fragile forms
and your grip has ceased to close on even these
tiny
living human beings.

You Were Given

 

You were sewed into me, like initials Mother fastened to my childhood sweater;  even beneath a pile of scarves and mittens, the garment remained my own.

You were sealed within—a poking package wrapped in skin, a growing tremor,
a terrifying wonder—and I was your living envelope, your place of origin. 
 
You adorned me, stretched me, and I was never happier.  But I made a lonely decision: you would be given; my arms would scarcely hold you.  Before then,

          we walked among blooming apples: green leaves fringed in pink,
          discreet and prudent bees.  We were never questioned by the trees.

          I spied a wedding at the pavilion: bridesmaids and groomsmen smiled
          and smoked cigarettes by the colonnade.  They were pictures to be taken.

          I pined to reach and pinch them—to stretch their skin and beat them,
          to syncopate their laughter with my wisdom—but we kept our cadence

          and our rhythm, like the rain that fell as your due date came and went.
          Then you appeared—and the rising river crested—my hidden-to-me girl.

          Your charcoal eyes lit and gripped, then left me wrestling your trace.
          Your vestige burned where you leapt down to my boughs.   

When fall arrived, the park blustered.  The oaks hardened and released
their bright leaves.  I bit my lips and salt dried on my cheeks. 

I prayed for autumn to depart without pity.  I prayed to be like fired pottery. 
I prayed…and an unforeseen reply rolled toward me.  From the sidewalk

an infant cry scraped me.  I shuddered at the sudden flash and strike,
but stayed and waited until a distant rumbled comfort finally came.

Somehow, I asked the baby’s name.  A tiny hand raised.  The Mother
hushed her parcel.  And I stretched myself over the stroller—like a canopy.

Tapestry

photo by Denton Harryman of GreenvilleDailyPhoto.com

Answered prayer, she says, you are an answer.
Billiard balls dance behind plate glass.
Cue sticks aim, wave, conduct our conversation.
Like over-sized batons they signal us to begin.

Friendly strangers, we lay out the makings
for a tapestry—words, expressions.  We weave
answers and questions.  A weft thread
beneath the warp rises to the pattern.

With longing, each one eyes the other
standing there.  Each looks for a close weave,
for a familiar image to appear amidst the intricacies,
beneath the lighted Corner Pocket sign.

Our eager, wanton prayers fly quickly, brightly,
like a tight rack of balls at the break.
Like many lavish threads, they emerge from below,
pressing against each other to form a whole.

to see more of Denton Harryman’s photography visit http://GreenvilleDailyPhoto.com