I Hold Up the Sky

I hold up the sky.

My arms stretch deep into blue,

a trick of the light.

Its waves echo the waters

ruled by the moon,

that circle and curl against my legs

and my grounded feet,

set apart, according to the 

rules of prayer,

as if I were praying.

I am not.

I hold up the sky,

my arms reaching upwards,

trembling with the weight of heaven

and the glory of God.

The waters are cold against my skin,

but I stretch into blue,

and hold the glory of God.

I will not bend.

To bend is to break.

I hold up the sky

until I am bowed. trembling 

under the weight of blueness.

I am bent, according to the rules of prayer.

I do not pray,

and it feels as if I am breaking - 

its own kind of glory, 

under this vast rim of heaven 

rooted in the the mutable 

curve of water and earth.

Its blueness is a trick of the light.

I am bent; I am bowed,

and I pray.