To Pray

As I breathe into this window
misting the rain streaks
nose catching the chill.
I look down and across.

A child runs this way, that way
through the graveyard.
Maybe laughing.

Oh! If I only could be carried to the daisies
the creeping and stinging weeds of age.
I would hold a scythe to myself
hack at the waste.

On the glass I write,
‘All is not lost.’
Maybe believing.