At dawn—beneath the frozen moon
suspended in the still air—
I strike a match,
and light a small flame
before the Presence
of the Lord who allows all things.

With trembling hands,
I fasten my hunger,
my frailty,
to the belt of the Lord—
and once again,
I open the prayer box.

For the brother
who sleeps with the dark in his arms,
for the sister
wading through the troubled tide,
for the child
whose growing stopped mid-summer,
for all who have fallen
among the thorns of sickness and sorrow—

Unless the sap still rises through the body,
unless the knees touch
both earth and sky,
the meeting with the Lord
is not yet complete.

So I pray—
for the day you lift your face toward light,
for the day I may become
a stepping stone beneath your feet,
for the day
you walk alone
yet unafraid.

And this small one—
by the mercy of the Lord—
opens the prayer box again
before the closed gate of heaven.