First day of the month—
 
the tea in my cup grows cold
 
along with my prayers.

 
 
 

after the last click
 
of wooden rosary beads:
 
prayers with no answers

Prayers

 
 
 

folding her prayers
 
into a handkerchief
 
for safekeeping

Rusting

 
 
 

rusting temple gates—
 
even the pious old nuns
 
forget their prayers

Linger

 
 
 

On an empty road
 
the prayers of pilgrims past
 
linger forever.

Unanswered

 
 
 

sweeping the chapel
 
after the pilgrims go home
 
unanswered prayers

Fence

 
 
 

their old love letters
 
clothespinned to the backyard fence—
 
fluttering prayers

Mystery

 
 
 

heaped in the temple—
 
ten thousand fervent prayers
 
God didn’t answer