Evening Prayer
A few quiet moments now to pray before payer begins,
a moment to taste being, to listen to the rain,
Florida rain, rain in rivers not in drops and dabs,
and in all of this to see grace, to hear God.
The God who loves me, calls me His own beloved.
The same God who made the blue of ocean and sky,
who fed Elijah by the Wadi Cherith when all hope
was lost. The same God who opened his arms and died
for me as if I were the only one.
So called free verse is the stream of consciousness of the poetry world. It has its functions and purposes as in this free-form meditation. I could sculpt it into something other, but then it would not be what captured that moment. Sometimes a poem is a painting, sometimes it is a polaroid. This one is a polaroid--snapped at the time of its happening, without deliberate art or artifice, but nevertheless true for all that.
