Small Prayer
We see this ground as if through a spaceship’s
faceted metal eye. Having seen the blue round
as small as a child’s ball, having solved just enough
of mystery to be lost in what we think
we know. We’ve thought to play with it,
to make the planet smaller yet.
Now we do with it what we will,
forgetting how its vastness left us
speechless, worshipping. We lose
forest and furrow where we began.
And the kindred animals have begun
to leave. The water’s gone
that married time and loved the stone
into a canyon’s grace. We’ve forgotten
how to stay — how to say: this place.
Let the earth grow large enough again
that only clouds and stories can
encircle it entire. Let rockets land
for good, satellites fall dumb,
and wires unspan enough that distances
grow wide to dwarf our wars.
May mystery loom large enough again
to answer prayers and keep us.
— Betty Adcock
Betty Adcock is the author of Rough Fugue.
