before early spring snow
saturates the piles--
shreds of twisted cloth,
white here in the bushes,
red in a crack in the stone wall,
blue buried under mulch--
Xmas morning, my smoky lover,
brings in a string stretched, loose threads,
remains of prayer flags yanked off the porch,
thumbtacks intact, no snow
to betray vandal footprints--
I do not believe in prayer,
requests or praise aimed up, away
to some divine parent who
may or may not be home,
will do as they please in any case,
leave us to label it grace or miracle--
but I like the idea of prayer flags
shuddering in the breeze, visible
messenger of global good wishes
thread by thread,
marking mine a tooth fairy-free home--
colored scraps now, months after the act,
hurried to dispel their tidings, enabled
by rough, angry hands--
or was it fear my prayers were to be
answered, theirs tossed in neglected heaps,
mementos of spring, crumbling
in winter heat?
CAR 2/29/12
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