The first prayers were smoke

This poem by Eileen Elizabeth appeared first in print in Boshemia Magazine: Origins. Get your copy here.

The first prayers were smoke

I offer you breath, a candle

I am made small by the long shadows of afternoon 

Dust motes drift like ashes

perhaps an old dream 

perhaps you

I’m not sure where or if you are

but it is not hard to sit and face the great east window

watching the afternoon light slant

through the stained glass

and wait

You are the warm afternoon that moves through the sanctuary

or maybe the deep tremble waiting to echo from the organ

I am waiting to hear from you

I don’t speak to you or God or anyone