My father and I, we check the locks– that’s what the Abels do. Neurosis passed along the line just like his Craftsman tools. I see him there, on his rounds, nocturnal sealing rite. Here I am, securing doors against encroaching night. There was a time when I asked what does this signify? Now we double check the doors and do not worry why.
The proud tongue is tied in prayer.
The parched tongue is quenched in prayer.
The prayerful tongue is loosed—
occasionally, mysteriously—
in co-creation.
Enveloping mist.
Bare trees bloom from the chill gray,
Lonely shapes in black.
Columbine flowers,
red and yellow atop long,
thin stems: spring lanterns.
I slip into sleep naming gratitudes:
A litany against fear.
Night-voices may wake and shake me,
But I’m learning not to hear.