Light

Let there be speeding muscle cars,
gears growling down to idle

on neighborhood streets
for the squirrel transfixed,

the kind of prayer
castaways comprehend.

Let there be hands raised
in affirmation of miracles

and joy from the gathered crowd
of noon meal City Light regulars,

the Displaced from the streets,
offering prayer requests,

not for themselves
but for those engulfed

in the Darkness of despair,
heedless of indifferent vehicles

bearing down, disbelieving
a mother’s arm is reaching out.

Let there be a wife and mother,
alone this day, holding back

with one hand the herding dog
and with the other scooping up

the fledgling mockingbird
running, wings flapping

for take off, and uphold
the creature for its parents

shouting, dive-bombing
the dog, and position

the young bird atop the
backyard fence

to calm its heart,
preparation for flight.

So may we believe
the soul’s wordless prayer,

quiet of the new moon’s
thin crescent spreading

its light, intended hope,
yes, faith in such

indispensable acts
of compassion.