A sickle of moon is caught
in the branches of cottonwoods
along the ice choked river.
A black night.
Stars in their constellations
so far away,
my prayers fly nakedly,
shadows among them.
It is cold.
With broken star gazers who pray,
I await a reply.
Simple worship does not seek
the approval of an echo.
Freezing, yielding to the shivers
of cooling blood, I stumble in
to wait by my fire
of forest wood.
I hear silver chimes
hanging in the blue spruce
outside my frozen window
played by mercy of sudden wind.
A sickle moon, a star,
a wrung out prayer,
matins sealed with silver chimes.
Charles Van Gorkom (20th century) Canada
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