I let God turn me.
Swear belief; the informal prayer is heard anyway.
Eyes upturned in calamity
Are seen, or not seen
It moves me still, with no name .
Tallies rise and fall
Are absent or sacred, chaotic
Serene.
There is a hand in the small of my back,
Its warm weight a pressure forward-
There is no hand.
About the Creator
Anna Cunningham
Longtime poet residing in Virginia's Blue Ridge Mountains
Keep reading
More stories from Anna Cunningham and writers in Poets and other communities.
Comments (1)
Well written, Mrs. Anna Cunningham! Fantastic✨