In honor of my mother, who died on Wednesday morning
now and here
Here make your wild and messy household
your chaotic piles of branches and bones
with the grass always springing up between
and always the unseen bird calling from high in a tree
and rain falling somewhere and snow falling
and rivers meandering and earth shaking
and small wet joyful creatures jumping
and everywhere darkness and dust and stars.
Fill us with the fire of your desiring.
Teach us to yearn for what you yearn for.
Make us ache and burn and shine and split.
Let us leave the air dazzling wherever we pass.
And feed us:
hold us in your wide lap,
against your soft breast.
Rock us and sing us into life.
And give us another chance.
Teach us to walk barefooted and easy.
Teach us to go to ground singing.
Teach us to open our hands.
When we come to the rim of the volcano
or slide out onto a skim of ice
or step onto a thin branch
push us over, crack us under, let us fall,
and catch us, laughing, in your wide welcoming arms.
This appeared in the anthology, Women’s Uncommon Prayers, Morehouse Barlow