by Padma Thornlyre
I am not so full of wine and elk medallions grilled rare
that I forsake utterance. Lichens, too, have filled me up, near
cactus -flowers and the ashes of old friends.
I prefer the dirt and muddy
road over the paved,
bandura over techno,
for the sky’s gifts
I am grateful.
God, I am so much less than you!
In your doe – eyes I am nothing.
In your warmth I remain self–conscious — such prayers
of mine are stuttered! You are, in this March snow,
my woodstove, my radiance of aspen log and pine.