The first prayers were smoke
This poem by Eileen Elizabeth appeared first in print in Boshemia Magazine: Origins. Get your copy here.
The first prayers were smoke
I offer you breath, a candle
I am made small by the long shadows of afternoon
Dust motes drift like ashes
perhaps an old dream
perhaps you
I’m not sure where or if you are
but it is not hard to sit and face the great east window
watching the afternoon light slant
through the stained glass
and wait
You are the warm afternoon that moves through the sanctuary
or maybe the deep tremble waiting to echo from the organ
I am waiting to hear from you
I don’t speak to you or God or anyone