The evening and the morning, are one and the same-
beckoning my loins to pray.
And yet a little while – our bodies exude a mist of metaphysical liberation
with limits because we have forgotten our tongues, uttering the essence of being.
My knees are wrapped in the riverbeds in the east
stroked by lightning, caressed by thunder, the angel passes by
I’m encouraged to believe these storms aren’t man-made.
The old men on corners, the children refused to play.
And yet for a little while, I beseech the one who made the skies.
The one who transforms rain to fire.
The one who gives inspiration.
The one who plants cellular bones in the womb.
The one who knows the seven wonders of the earth.
It’s the only one who listens when I pray….