Sister says that she spoke with GodWho spoke to her in whitewater flood,Words in a torrent, God’s holy voiceCame to sister in the course of a dream.
That answer was long overdue:Years of prayer and desperation,Entreaties carefully crafted, aimedIn careful angle toward the beige baked sky,Launched like messages in bottlesThat float slow vulnerableAnd then turn back, return to shore,Captive to the laughing tide.
Resolute sister prayed and waited,Allowed her words to floatUntil they broke, at last,Beyond the waves and swellsThat, on other days,Would have pushed them backToward the long beach of her consciousness.
Clearly, God could not pretendThat sister’s words could not be heardOr had failed to echo within the spaceThat separates the holy from the flawed;Her words, in fact, resoundedWithin the holy sanctum.
God listened to her prayer(Simple, plaintive supplication),And, this time, answered herIn perfect words that fell to earth;But sister had retreated,Found refuge in a thicket:A vestibule that she believedWas far beyond harm’s reach;She lay tangled peaceful in the weeds,Fell asleep and wouldn’t wake up,Supine beneath the senile trees;Branches out like outstretched armsHeld vigil over her.
As the sky rolled by,God’s words fell loud like rainBetween the twisted fingersOf ancient branches;Sister heard what she had waited forAnd opened her eyes:Myriad holy words in pilesLay strewn upon the ground;She picked them upAnd wore those words upon her head,A crown of twigs and red edged leaves.
