when they prayed in Ancient Jerusalem
they enclosed themselves in the comfort of walls,
the necessity of shadow — they had of course
been sunburned. but when you pray in Portland
or Atlanta, lay down amid the wildflowers
until your body-spirit seeps into their roots
and listens to petals that only think of blue —
your eight-foot walls, halls, doorknobs,
sanded floors, and mirrored windows
are too cramped a cosmos, stamping
you into atheism and scoliosis, bended branch.
even Nebuchadnezzar was wise enough to walk
in gardens, searching for God when the swords
went quiet. and don’t you remember the poet
said fleeting flowers out-dress all of history’s
kings and coronations? don’t you remember
that lilies only bloom when God walks by?
pray near one, because there, the air
might still be stirring from the rustle of his robe.