Winter, Psalm 20

You ignored the dishes, crumbs
standing barefoot, cold
the metal sink-edge bit into your exposed belly
as you pressed, leaning over the window pane,
looking for a neighbor, a stranger, a deity.

You sank to the yellowed linoleum,
looking for a deity in the cracks.

He has come,
and is in the winter wheat's sprouting.
You are on your knees in the kitchen, asking and knowing
the answer.