Prayer

I’m cutting my swallows from black silk,
China’s best, Father, so that when flying
they meet with the least amount of resistance
and thank you again for the abundance
of insects over the green rice fields
this evening, the water bumpy with frog eyes
reflecting a pink west-flowing sky.

Now, I’m sewing into the material
my red heart because the dead lately
have been a little noisy in my sleep
and about this prayer, Father,
I don’t want any confusion—

I’m mud deep here
in love and would like to stay on
a while longer at least until I get the sun right,
its light over the rim of the bowl
we all eat from, and to watching,
while I’m at it, the little spot fires
appearing over the back of my hands—
my age, a quiet invitation
to bird watching
where light around the grey heron,
alone in the water,
dies down, in time, to black
and what the imagination can rescue.