“I find letters from God dropped in the street and
every one is signed…”
Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass, “Song of Myself”
God writes so seldom now, I think
He uses lemon juice for ink.
His notes are coded ciphers hid in hollow rocks.
I’m lucky if I can find one in St. James Park.
I’ve given up on God’s game of hide and seek,
much less deciphering his sideways scrawl.
Did he stop writing for a reason?
We never had a fight or falling out.
Or did we stop talking, like an old couple
of fifty years eating their meals in silence?
What of those letters from our first love affair?
The prayers so hot, each one immolated itself?
Each one bleeding with longing and desire
and a devouring need to disappear in the other.
Doesn’t that count for something?
Or were those prayers just seeds
meant to be buried then die in the ground
so an invisible tree could take root
each branch bearing green leaves that flame
with their own words of love before they die?