We Used To Pray To God

We used to pray to god.
The slow, messy work of
knees cramping, calves calving,
laying ourselves and all alliteration at the lord’s feet.
Sometimes we did not receive an answer.
Or we made them up with something called hope.

Hope is that lily in the garden, who resembles my late friend.
Hope is that hummingbird, who appears on a rainy day.
Hope is what happens in the silence,
what makes our hearts pound, begging
God
God
Let me hear you, God.
Let me hear nothing again.
Nothing at all, not a single sign, and I will know
You are there.

I do not want an answer,
But let me hold faith that the answer will show years later in a raindrop,
in a saved child,
in a healed mother,
in a tall tree with a thick trunk that could kill me, but doesn’t.
Then hand me the Bible when I despair,
when I grow desperate,
impatient for my guidance, for speed.
Yes, then give me the most sacred book that’d take long to read.
Yes, yes, give it to me please.
And though I may not believe all the stories—
a walk on water; a blind man once again sees—
I know all the words do not deceive
because they were honest-to-God written, just like these
.

We used to pray to God.
Most days we sat in silence, staring up and beautifully guessing.
Perhaps it was always the answer,
to not be able to prompt a blessing.