Searching for Things to Worship
Patrick Carrington

As a boy, everything was a delicious
snarl of spring. Busy being born,
every imaginable form of magnificence
raveled in one juicy knot. Even the ice
buds of winter maples, bared
like teeth to make breakfast
out of dawn, held green embryos.

When I sort the fluttering debris
of those thick days, only you
remain lush. The tangle of jungle
has browned with our absence.
And the cold sky that wakes,
yawning on the horizon, is more
than a tired morning this time.

It arrives fresh as a priest, frost
its holy book, its wind a proverb
of dust. I always thought
there’d be more than memory
to worship. I remember how
you cupped water at Cedar Creek,
your hands a chalice. And flowers

you planted near the bank
to make it your church,
somewhere to sit in the greening
comfort of a private prayer.
A place one might see God
and not be surprised.