Tattered

tattered prayer flags hung high on wood dowels
how tattered we are, how tattered our hopes
faded to pale shades from sampling breezes 
that took no account of the passing years

we flecked ourselves into the air that passed
through us, touched us and took us bit by bit
on unconcerned currents to who knows where
and why should prayer have reason to care?

of what might prayer’s intuition be,
un-thing with no need of wings or feathers
made nearly substantial in filaments
of some pale flags once dyed more fervent shades?

no praying man I am, yet slim remnants
of such fluff carry me also away



This was first published on July 29, 2023, the third poem in the series.