Poetry: Layers

I pray to pray in the ancient way—

with cross and candle,
body and blood,
an hour before dawn.

Like Jeremiah,
in his heft and sadness,
trusting the world to suffer on.

Trusting in a slow God,
bent low toward things
spent and unhappy.

I believe in layers,
spread flat and thin,
like paint across the centuries.

The press of the dead.
Their efforts and losses,
achievements and pleasures.

And what they know now.
They watch us all, covering us
in just, honest measure.

I pray to remember.