This night hosts dinosaurs and demons
Growling, tapping, slithering to my door
To utter threats or blessings, dependent
Upon my ability or desire to laden bags
With candies meant to cheer and send the chill
Of coming death away, even in the face of disaster.

This night stands at the death of summer,
Poised to catch the fall of leaves,
The deadened pulse of green things
Grown disconsolate in the hands of Frost.

When you run across a "which,"
Put a comma in the ditch.

Stolid now, and still,
Clapped for sons and daughter
Successful in their various ways:
Races finished,
Speeches delivered,
Bicycles ridden,
Announcements given.

Moved, these hands,
To build and mend,
To knead and sow,
Without a seeming end.

Held me as a baby,
Held my babies, too,
But now I hold them,
Cold and still.

Slack now, these hands...
A life of work is done.

Exodus 32:11-14
But Moses sought the favor of the LORD his God. “LORD,” he said, “why should your anger burn against your people, whom you brought out of Egypt with great power and a mighty hand? Why should the Egyptians say, ‘It was with evil intent that he brought them out, to **** them in the mountains and to wipe them off the face of the earth’? Turn from your fierce anger; relent and do not bring disaster on your people. Remember your servants Abraham, Isaac and Israel, to whom you swore by your own self: ‘I will make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and I will give your descendants all this land I promised them, and it will be their inheritance forever.’ ”
Then the LORD relented and did not bring on his people the disaster he had threatened.

Thinking about the finite speaking to the Infinite,
The imperfect to the Perfect,
The chosen to the Chooser,
The creation to the Creator,
The human dialog with the Almighty.

Did a man change the course of Doom,
Move Heaven on behalf of earth through "prayer"?

I the lonely meadowlark
Perched upon the thistle
Waiting the sickled mower to pass

I the cracked egg
Fetal heart slowing, slowing
Death before the hatchling birth

I the hare crouchant
Scarce aware the shadow’s dive
Screeching beneath the talons

I the wind-torn tree
Branches scattered, bleeding sap
Beetles explore the shredded bark

I the fawn uncertain
Edging the splattered highway
Mother shattered in the lane

The Master slept; disciples saw the coming storm,
Threw a blanket on their Lord to keep him warm.
Clouds congealed, grays grew dark;
Lightning moved in flashing arcs.

More than a squall, the winds carved trenches
In writhing waters grown black beneath,
Tipped with frothing benches.

Grown weary of the crowds, body spent with care for others,
Still He slept the rest of an exhausted man,
Unaware the growing fear of brothers.

"Wake up! Do you not care if we all drown?"
Was it Peter who shook Him there,
Amazed he slept so sound?

He sat up from sleep, looked at the water,
Felt the wind, turned to the water,
Scolded, "Peace! Be still!"

The winds dropped; so did the waves;
The boat bobbed gently in the calm.
The men, awed, stood on the silent boards,
Marveling at the Lord.

We live upon on a tossing sea,
Torn by hate and fear in a storm of strife,
And no one has an answer we can see.
We're sailors fearing the end of life.
When is the time to turn to God,
Whom we forget still cares,
Waits "sleeping in the boat"
Until we're desperate in our prayers?