Isaiah 1
"When you spread out your hands in prayer, I will hide my eyes from you; even if you offer many prayers, I will not listen. Your hands are full of blood; wash and make yourselves clean."
i scratch through december grass,
gathers in small patches,
gathers to stretch toward sky
with green hands groaning for snowfall.
Unraked ground cannot receive
the purest of precipitation,
the crystals will cling to the edge of the leaf
and leave muck in wicked mounds.
To cry to the God of heaven
and clear what remains beneath,
that is the waiting,
the joining of remorseful removal
and bowing for the expectant approval,
i churn out the wet and decaying
while praying for purest renewal.
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