OUR MOTHER

OUR MOTHER

who makes art of brooks and April branches,
your kingdom come in every breath of every stone,

in reverence of roses for rain,
in puddles bearing chalices of sun down to the creatures

of the undersong. Your will in storms’ restorative fury,
oak leaves who brave the cutlasses of winter

to witness their green children spring. Forgive us the crushed
insect, the flowers unadored

and for forgetting this sweet, vivacious rot is all
for...giving.