flycatcher

Abigail Carroll

Matins


Then will I weave

from the ash-blue light

     and the laments

     of David a basket
,
the spokes of which will hold,

     strong and bone-like,

     a weft of words

soaked in solitude and moon-

     gleam, supple

     as the waning dark,

which bends away on the arc

     of night. Then

     will I twine

my petitions onto the dawn;

     with each tuck

     and fold, Selah
.
Such is the work of prayer:

     a thrush sews twigs

     and grass, and out

of it the bowl of a nest;

     chafed hands

     braid reeds

and splints into a tabernacle

     of sorts. Here

     will I live—

if You will tenant this house,

     scaffold of birdsong

     and sighs, the grievances

of Job, damp air, the stir of leaves,

     light unraveling the oaks.

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Artwork on this page:

Detail of Hands on the ground

10 x 8" oil on clayboard

Irene Hardwicke Olivieri