Dear God of Clouds

Dear God of Clouds,
I thank thee for rain, for respite from the sun.
Thank you for the pieces of yourself that you let go.
What a noble act,
to give yourself to the earth.
Here you go earth, you say.  Here is my blood.
Drinketh, rise forth in blossom.

We’d all be much better off
if we could learn from your example.
Here you go, ground, I’d say,
you can have the dead orchid, the sticks and stones, my bullet teeth and America.  Here you go, take the bent bone in my nose, my fear of heights, my swimmingpool chest. Let’s see what kind of flowers you can make out of that. 

 

But I don’t choose the things I let go.
I wake up, sometimes, and all I have
is circumstantial evidence.
A memorial of empty cans,
a twisted ankle,
depressed carpet fibers leading to the door,
a stickiness on my face below my eyes.
There’s so much to remember.
The skull is only 950cm³ in volume. I can’t keep everything.

 

Dear God of Clouds,
You can’t possible remember the name of every raindrop.
Please forgive me for forgetting all the sins
for which I must be forgiven.
Unburden me of this gravity
so that I may follow your grace.
In rising, in falling.
Show me how particles separate.
Take my body like liquid.
Amen.

 

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