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.

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