Book of Praises: Miracle

When I bowed beside the river,
hands knit to slake thirst,
you heard me, the axe head
floating on the face of the water;
I looked back to my pile of masks
knowing what to do
(and now, how to do it).

When I had finally gotten somewhere
much like a mountain, coals over my shoulder,
you heard my dishonest letdown
at forgetting the weapon;
an angel from behind, saying,
“The Lord will provide the gun.”