From Heaven's Workshop

I walk the streets, off beat
on crumbled sidewalks. A leaf
Lost in a park. In a garden

graced with birds tickling trees,
their footsteps whisper
on the branches. Music
from heaven, words

in spring’s light
a thought forgotten
And then remembered.
The birds’ voice would inspire
her. I ponder silently how

She rests in her workshop--
Her mind swarming with
Line-breaks
And King David writes psalms

while Abraham, the father
Of nations thinks of stars that burn
that can’t be numbered with birthdays.

My mother
I pray daydreams of warm summers,
lengthened walks near thunder,
Cracked lightning over the lake
Where she grew up and doesn’t have to
Run anymore. Enjoying
Palmetto’s half-hidden sun.

***
Sometimes at night, the stars linger
in the sky, stand still and question
the moon. Wonders beyond earth, what holds everything
in place. I stare waiting
for a semblance, a touch—
an answer.

***
In the park that night, the pond stretched
over the horizon. Calling from within
the clouds, the stars fall
subject to the moon’s silhouette.
 
I pause and question, think about her,
wonder how I could miss a touch
I never received. But I rest, stare
send a prayer
past the stars, still as if confident.
 
I look up and hear a woman’s voice
lost in late spring wind.
I walk away
and hear her ask with frustration
if heaven exists. The moon
pulls away at the pond, and in the waves
there is a glimmer. A star falls
silent, burns underneath the wave’s gentle ambling,
pulled reticent by heaven’s gravity.

***
Across the street, from a cafe
people walk to and fro—waltz
to class, to work, from home.
In the morning, where the sun burns
the earth’s panes, yet soothes
through the curtains, in my booth I question
when the answer will come. But I wait. I watch
people cross the street and wonder how
the spirit inside
holds rain for the heart to beat and grow to—keep
pace with. To run with even when the pail
inside seems full. Even when you don’t know
if you can run and hold anymore.

***
One day in front
of Wal-Mart, a man’s glance
told me more about God
than religion ever could. With his eyes,
worn with age he said, young man,
don’t stop dreaming, don’t stop believing,
don’t be afraid to keep asking.
I look up and imagine how
everything around us is in motion—
the planets move perfectly around the sun—
dying, yet held perfect in gravity.
Later that night, the moon pulled away
from the pond. I saw a glimmer.