Wet snow plops down outside
on bushes and shrubs, as I choose
which words to send up to the Lord.
I wonder if he has a system
for filing my prayers, or if
he just relies on omniscience,
leaving my prayers in piles
till they cover heaven’s front yard
and excited angels run-out
with sleds, toques, and mittens
while the Holy Ghost and Christ watch,
humming to themselves by the window
waiting for the water to boil
to make tea and hot chocolate.
Down here, the coffee gurgles as
I scribble prayers in my journal
and snow accumulates outside.