The prayerful one promised bread like seeds feathering on dusts of wild Sin, where wisps of lowly morning water held God’s glory in their mist. Here, child, mother said, go find pearls of honey before they melt beneath the candle sun —bright till late when even comes, hot while whirls of coveys run. Have you forgotten? God can grow flocks of quail from stone in single turns of earth, will try our optimism with daily acts of sacred birth. We tasted meat with manna, bit feathered flesh while grinding colors from the seeds, baking cakes to turn sweetness into fresh oil without a single olive tree. Have you forgotten? Who God creates, God sustains and we must keep for generations the seeds we have been rained. I prayed to know my own mete hunger, testing fullness as I ate. Here, child, I told my daughter, plan what to ask from Heaven’s plate. Know you the needs you call your own? Trust you the seeds you pleaded sown? The prayerful one promised God our eyes, gazing up into the clouds, and I promised God my words until the heavens all fall down. Then song, then dance, then surer faith until the mountains all but drown, and up on ridges kin will gather to watch the dew again disperse. I’ll pray for you to see your manna, child, flooding this universe.
Fleur Van Woerkom is a lover of earth, art, movement, and stories. She is currently studying writing at Columbia University.
This poem originally appeared in Wayfare’s Poetry section. To receive each new poem published by Wayfare, first subscribe to Wayfare and then click here to manage your subscription and select “Poetry.”
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