Irene Savine: “Our Father, Our King”

The bees
don’t recite
an alphabet of woe

Yet on the loneliest day
of the year
here we are,
a congregation of acorns
buried in silent meditation.

Under our domed hats
we pray for roots
and though the angels,
the year’s recording complete,
are gripped by fear
and trembling,
there is still time to ask.

The sky is open
our parents long for sleep,
a scattering of leaves
covers us.