Now we see no great descent or resurrection,
no epiphanic flash of glory—
but our earth-days lengthen in procession;
figs swell, buckeye bloom,
4th graders clean their desks with Windex,
civil servants dream about vacation,
dove & barn-swallow dart and nest.
We too plant, harvest, travel, play:
The air fills with the smell of roofing tar.
O god of fat & marrow,
god of the shadow of wings;
god of trumpets, flinty rock,
trombones, oil & honey, prophets;
of signs & wonders, justice, salt;
God of miracles & transports,
come to us now as ordinary time,
as graduations, welcome boredom, dust-motes;
as work and rest, as naptime;
as basketball thundering on the park court.
Be as children calling before dinner, as the fullness
of freeway engines, freight trains, architects’ plans
in sheaths, also as travellers sleeping
under the dark-leaved cherry with their backpacks.
Shapeshifting god, god of earthen vessels,
rest with us now as plenty, as enoughness.
Be our contentment. Let your peace
swim at dusk, let it also be