Father
Not even a prayer in this wind of hollow and change,
Will down my Father's house or bring stillness to the trees,
The hands that held my hands will not build my church,
Or parish the sun in a gold gibbous case.
That heart outside my heart--a tried, winded, simple space
Where love lived low and galed inside black irises.
Stern, taciturn, and taller than pines; I stood
at one knee and waited for the oak to bend.
Unable to stand through the long blue day,
kneeling
in wrested piety, I see the ignoble weep,
And learning that men are not as tall as these,
Whispering to the wind, I bring stillness to the trees.
~Marylou Canevari
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