It's hard, at times, this journey. She wakes two hours
before dawn to sit in silence and murmur prayer
words. Some days the words hit the wall,
falling to the floor in a pile. She wonders if she's
heard. Should she shout? Wake the neighbors,
force jubilation? She picks the words up in her hands:
Lord, Son, God, Mercy, Sinner, shuffles them, and puts
them in her pocket. All I must remember. Light appears,
oatmeal cooks, the tea kettle whistles. And next?
She takes her pocketful of God out the front door,
sees the gathering storm clouds, and wonders,
when will I come to the other side,
when will it rain?