My people do not kneel.
Our prayer stands
upright.
upright.
On firm ground.
Even as we rock our dreams to G-d
and plead for His
forgiveness.
Once a year.
Once a year.
They let us fall.
To our knees.
Feeling the firm ground beneath a
turned cheek.
My clenched fist
tap, tapping
at my sorry
at my sorry
heart.
I like it there.
On the pale blue carpet
of the House of
Prayer.
Want to sink deeper.
Needing to be
Down.
On the ground
in the dirt.
Stamped there.
By generations of my people's
prayer.
Then I rise.
We rise.
Again
And muffled prayers
now burst into the room.
Echoing out into the quiet
morning.
Catching the wild geese,
up high beneath a pale and tender sky.
Like me.
They are
returning
too.
I hear their call.
Even as the warm light
finds me through
the open window.
Feel the air move
and the rivers swell,
and the mountain face
its deep forest green.
Whilst I was down there.
And the world
was turning,
turning
me.
I really enjoyed this post.
ReplyDeleteIt is relaxing and at the same time thought provoking.