Orando laborando.

it is not his name

it is
this prayer
hand in hand
with prayer

these are the hands
that clasp
after a day of
plowing those
arid lands

the silence of the stones
after the
pebbles have
gritted

the chair facing
the sunset
after the door is
banged

it happens when
we finally rest
in sleep
after we shout
to one
another.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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