if they’ll be heard.
They sing like the world
was made for the attempt.
The sky,
torn a little at the seam,
lets out a gold thread—
hardly light,
more a shimmer
auditioning for it.
You’ve seen it too,
on the drive home,
when the sun leans across the dashboard
and dares you
to let go the wheel.
Here’s the trick
the old poets knew:
You don’t follow joy.
You let it pass
and act
like joy was just passing through.
Still,
the soft things return—
morningdawn,
dog paws at your heel,
one stubborn weed
rising like a middle finger
from the concrete.
This, too, is prayer.
This, too,
is worth showing up for.
