For a short time each morning
it is possible to believe

that God spent the night
cutting the flat black shapes

of trees from the sky,
wondrously complicated holes

that only become visible
when the sky’s light

begins to slowly come on.
It is an exercise in faith

ruined differently each morning.
For instance, today by two crows.

Then God must start over—so
many branches to retrace and snip—

it’s no wonder he can’t
hear our prayers.


Heather Christle