Imeinu Malkateinu hear our prayer

I knew my mother was a queen.

She wore the night sky like a crown,

and she blessed us with her endless bounty. 

We feasted on cherries in the warm summer air

until our fingers were stained red

and sticky.

She held court at the kitchen table,

ruling us all with equal parts 

mercy and justice. 

Be kind, she commanded,

and oh! how we tried to please her,
live up to that mark!

But we were children,

and so were sometimes cruel,

and she would call us to account,

because she was Queen,

and she always knew.

We would tremble some,

standing before her,

waiting for her measured justice,

fear and shame twisting in our bellies

because we knew, always,

that we had failed her,

and so had failed ourselves.

Sorry, we would cry, every time -

time after time after time again -

Forgive us, we would plead.

We will do better,

we would promise.

Next time, 

we would say. 

My mother would gather us close,

Be kind, she would say again,
gentle, and merciful as a kiss,

and she wiped our red stained fingers 
with a soft cloth

until they were clean. 

Morning Prayers

In the morning
I write my prayers
on the sky
so that when I look up
I can see
Blessings.
And when they have
danced
Long enough
they fall,
To tangle in the trees
until every leaf -
Of greengold and
scarlet
and brittle brown -
they dance, too,
clinging in delicate
grace
for a heartbeat
moment
before drifting again
to tangle at my feet
and collect in my
pockets.

Listen

Listen
No-- really:
Listen
Can you hear it?
That thrum,
That vibration--
Up from your feet,
Through your leather-soled feet,
It moves,
Filling you
And buzzing up
And building
Till you want to burst
With breath
And life.
It moves in the drone of traffic noise
And birdsong,
And wind that scrapes against
Leaves the color of heartbreak gold.
And the air smells of cold
And wood smoke.
God!
Can you hear it?
All of it?
It's fast and slow together--
Dissonant
And tender as love,
And driving
A moving, pounding
Syncopated fifth
That gathers you in
And you're part of it--
All of it--
A single note
A holy, sacred note
that rises,
Like breath
That is the voice of God,
That starts like a thrum,
Like a drone,
And a buzz,
And so filled with glory
And joy
And bursts,
Uncontained and fierce--
A single note
Of gathered sound
And God.