Is there nothing I can do
no conjuring the hand of an imagined god
to rest gently on their busy, distant, beautiful heads?
Nothing I can do
with these tokens of divine protection
that I earn every time I startle awake at night?
Or are they worthless coins jingling in every pocket I own?
As they turn, smile, fade
and I stand fixed, powerless.
as they move into the future over the face
of this beautiful, treacherous, wonder-filled earth.
Diana Decker’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Silver Birch Press, Poppy Road Review, and Verdad. She writes and counts the birds on her small farm in Western New York.
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