Prayer

A poem? A confession? A prayer? I’m not sure. You decide.

Prayer

Clouds today. Gray.
Fog tumbles from the hills
as an old man’s beard tumbles
from a lost chin.
I can grow a beard,
a thick beard, one that billows
like plumes of black smoke,
salted with the white of my age.
I once believed a gray beard
was a manifestation of wisdom.
Moses knew when to lay his staff
on the parched earth,
when to lift it above a sea’s
heaving swells, but, even with my face
hidden beneath the tangled
depth of hair, I remain a foolish man.
I wonder, as God spills over
the hills, each wisp of fog
a stalk in his gray beard,
is he wise enough
to divine me?
So, I ask him, and we talk.

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