Prayer: Do You Weary of Us

Today it seemed you cut the mountains from blue construction paper,
smacked them up on the horizon, added a zigzag of snow. 

Sometimes I wonder: do you weary of us--
sigh, turn your attention to crafting easier, prettier things,
the narcissus trumpeting against the fence post, velvet-petaled primroses,
the blackbird high in the blue spruce, whose whole body shook with its call.

Still, what about the two old people who passed me this morning in the park
as I stopped to gaze out on smooth grey water? 
I noted their easy companionship, their small worlds of idiosyncrasies:
the hatted woman's purse bouncing against her thigh as she walked laps,
the man always one step behind.  Down in the dog park, a cluster of three men
watched labradors, threw balls, laughed.  And at the corner, two women
on a break from work smoking cigarettes, smiling as I walked by.

I imagined that you shared the morning with us,
threw a ball for a dog, hurried to catch up with the couple,
swapped jokes with the women at the corner.
Did you fall into step beside me as I paused to take in the mountains
and the water?  Was yours the song in the blackbird's mouth,
the delight that bent his black feathered body to singing?