Prayer

Four green threads interrogate the wind.

Pilgrims tie them to the iron fence around the saint’s tomb.

Each thread is a prayer. Each prayer is a chance to weave.

I do not want to return home without that which I came for.

The poet was here—but he’s gone now—

you’ve missed him.

The river turns three times on the journey home.

I have to tie the thread around my own wrist bone.