Once you saw the blood of Christ
on a knife carving redwood trees into church pews.
Now every Sunday morning
you hear glaciers melting
and you cry easy
as a one-night stand
never, ever is
when you see the feathers in your rear view mirror
scattering like prayers
searching for a safe place to land.
Hold me to my word
when I tell you I will leave today,
catch a bus ticket west
just to stand in the center of your highway
blocking traffic ‘til every feather’s answered.
I’ve see too many prayers
caught in the grills of eighteen-wheelers.
Folks like us, we may have
shoulder blades that rust in the rain got
but they’re still G-sharp
whenever our spinal chords are tuned
to the key of redemption.
So go ahead, world, pick us
to make things better.
-Andrea Gibson (thank goodness)
