by Cin Salach

When you are following, falling, when you are mid-air,

one day may as well be one hundred days. One thousand days.

One day may as well be forty years.

This day. This constant day, may it only be filled with God.

This heart, this relentless heart, may it only be filled with God.

This hunger, this immediate hunger, may it only be filled with God.

 

The minute pain stops we forget the pain because

Look! A shiny new hurt is right here!

Courage, rusty and small, silent, is not.

 

This fear, this endless fear, may it only be filled with God.

This body, this worried body, may it only be filled with God.

This path, this untraveled path, may it only be filled with God.

 

Then hope. As edible as bread.

As consistent as air.

As often as today.

 

Pray this three hundred and sixty five times forty.

Pray this with your mouth full.

Pray this with crumbs in your hands.

 

Just for today, I want this and no more.

I can gather what tomorrow needs, tomorrow.

Today, I can gather this.

 

 

Comment