What is prayer if not
the tree in winter
before the budding,
the frozen river
before the crack of the thaw,
the egg in the incubator,
the child—nose pressed against 
the window—waiting…
the still red coal awaiting 
the poker’s stir,
the icicle longing 
to melt and flow into the river,
the monk in his cell.

What is prayer if not 
the horizon 
before the rosy finger of dawn,
the still cold air on the banks of the Rio Grande
before the winging snow geese lift off,
that heaviness of breath
before the monsoon,
the hunger in the belly,
the dissonant chord—unresolved,
oh, the ache of it all,
the water not yet wine.