Have You Prayed” When the windturns and asks, in my father’s voice,Have you prayed?I know three things. One:I’m never finished answering to the dead.Two: A man is four winds and three fires.And the four winds are his father’s voice,his mother’s voice . . .Or maybe he’s seven winds and ten fires.And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching,dreaming, thinking . . .Or is he the breath of God?When the wind turns travelerand asks, in my father’s voice, Have you prayed?I remember three things.One: A father’s loveis milk and sugar,two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and what’s left overis trimmed and leavened to make the breadthe dead and the living share.And patience? That’s to endurethe terrible leavening and kneading.And wisdom? That’s my father’s face in sleep.When the windasks, Have you prayed?I know it’s only mereminding myselfa flower is one station betweenearth’s wish and earth’s rapture, and bloodwas fire, salt, and breath long beforeit quickened any wand or branch, any limbthat woke speaking. It’s just mein the gowns of the wind,or my father through me, asking,Have you found your refuge yet?asking, Are you happy?Strange. A troubled father. A happy son.The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one.
Have You Prayed” When the windturns and asks, in my father’s voice,Have you prayed?I know three things. One:I’m never finished answering to the dead.Two: A man is four winds and three fires.And the four winds are his father’s voice,his mother’s voice . . .Or maybe he’s seven winds and ten fires.And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching,dreaming, thinking . . .Or is he the breath of God?When the wind turns travelerand asks, in my father’s voice, Have you prayed?I remember three things.One: A father’s loveis milk and sugar,two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and what’s left overis trimmed and leavened to make the breadthe dead and the living share.And patience? That’s to endurethe terrible leavening and kneading.And wisdom? That’s my father’s face in sleep.When the windasks, Have you prayed?I know it’s only mereminding myselfa flower is one station betweenearth’s wish and earth’s rapture, and bloodwas fire, salt, and breath long beforeit quickened any wand or branch, any limbthat woke speaking. It’s just mein the gowns of the wind,or my father through me, asking,Have you found your refuge yet?asking, Are you happy?Strange. A troubled father. A happy son.The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one.
