Have You Prayed When the windturns and asks, in my fathers voice,Have you prayed?I know three things. One:Im never finished answering to the dead.Two: A man is four winds and three fires.And the four winds are his fathers voice,his mothers voice . . .Or maybe hes seven winds and ten fires.And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching,dreaming, thinking . . .Or is he the breath of God?When the wind turns travelerand asks, in my fathers voice, Have you prayed?I remember three things.One: A fathers loveis milk and sugar,two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and whats left overis trimmed and leavened to make the breadthe dead and the living share.And patience? Thats to endurethe terrible leavening and kneading.And wisdom? Thats my fathers face in sleep.When the windasks, Have you prayed?I know its only mereminding myselfa flower is one station betweenearths wish and earths rapture, and bloodwas fire, salt, and breath long beforeit quickened any wand or branch, any limbthat woke speaking. Its just mein the gowns of the wind,or my father through me, asking,Have you found your refuge yet?asking, Are you happy?Strange. A troubled father. A happy son.The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one.
