Prayer

The terrible trials still come. 
They haven't stopped. Weather 
that stays in place— days stacked 
like wet wool, nights that press 
on the ribs. Please let up already.
 
We're stripped down to nearly 
only the bones of our humanity. We
have to work so hard to even feel
capable of moving through the days.

My heart breaks for how much you
have to bear, as the rest of the world
blithely goes home to soft lamplight
and rest. It takes such work to coax
the soul to sit up straight in the body,
to convince it the music hasn't ended.
That it still has the capacity to dance.

Let today be the day, Lord. Send 
a sign that a flood of clear air 
is coming, that you won't begrudge 
the handful of coins in our hands. 
Give us mercy and a little hope. 
Our due at last. Fists unclasped.