If
every time
you said my name
I could pluck it
from the air
like an amber bead,
I would collect
enough of them
to make a rosary
so I can pray
to the one
who gave you voice.
Voice — a meditation
Rain clouds — a meditation
I’m on a train
speeding through
the countryside
as a thunderstorm
rages outside
in the fields.
In the distance
rain clouds gather
like a group
of bullies
on the schoolyard.
The rain
taps the trees
in a game of tag.
I’m thinking
about God.