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Prayer

When you left it was as if a glacier retreated,

As if the ice tonnage, which rasped, scraped, and scoured for ages,

Diminished in a moon’s single phase to a trickle of meltwater.

I live in its aftermath — till, eskers, erratics, cirques, exposed bedrock.

Moss darkens the far side of a granite boulder. Pines.

Then the valley fills with hardwood forest, which burns and grows again,

Which burns and grows again, which burns and grows again.