“The grass our fathers cut away
is growing on their graves today.”
Marianne Moore
Before my own small tasks began
there were mighty earthworks raised in Ohio.
The old people danced, cooked, prayed,
haggled, traded, and ran with abandon
through an encircled plaza.
Only trees dance there now.
I clean a spot on my kitchen floor,
and see it crumble into the future,
ants carrying away my layered life,
small birds nesting in places
that will inevitably fail.
Please, I say. Teach me Your dance.
(Third in a series on the Long Obligatory Prayer.)
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