spin beads to lake tide
hail mary, full of grace
lips press words to fragments of moonlight
scattered through waves
spun by wind
our father, who art in heaven
my tracks
car tracks
their tracks into water
hail mary, full of grace
pebbles press to flesh
dimpling ripples
she forgot to know
our father, who art in heaven
martyrdom at its finest
apologetics of faith
hail mary, full of grace
driftwood collection
tops freed feathers so they don’t fly
grounded and pressed to earth
glory be to the father
his father
her father
our father, who art in heaven
I am the father
blasphemer
Originally written April 2014, Lake Pueblo, Colorado.
