Paths and destinations

It's the specifics that throw me for a loop.

All of the details, unanswered,

remnants from the 5 Q reading and writing technique

we strangle the kids with in school.

Who? What? When? Where? Why?

I do not have inkling responses to any of those questions,

but I hope they will be:

her, love, soon, here, because.

Maybe that should be my daily prayer.

Give me this day my

her, love, soon, here, because.

I could work at it. Or I could wait for it, have it come to me.

I do not know which god to pray to, the one of action, or the one of destiny.

Maybe both have ears for the mantra,

maybe both can hear my night time pleading.

Her, love, soon, here, because.

Her, love, soon, here, because.

I remember a recent afternoon, when I stood on the high edge

of the Rocky River and I screamed out to the dry creek bed,

the walls of the gorge. I screamed out over the heights to the distant trees.

I screamed out of my fingertips, and down through my toes,

all of me open akimbo to the world.

I screamed out, "Come. Come."

But maybe I was not specific enough.

Meals have come, friendships strengthened, commitments locked down.

Days have spun past, skunks have been fed, the dry grass is browning.

Time has come, goodness has come.

But not her, love, soon, here, because.

So tonight, perhaps, I will take to the highest place on my side of town,

and I will ask my gods for the thing I want.

No, the thing I need. And perhaps then

she will come, love will come, soon will come here,

and come will come because it has been called.