coming home

I imagine you on the flat two-lane roads,
coming on ahead of the weather.

Behind you, a blizzard falls out of the northwest,
the kind that nearly froze Pa Ingalls as he stumbled blindly
past the barn, past the corner of the house,
into open prairie.
Snow drifts against your mother's headstone,
softens the print your left hand made
in the frozen earth at the base.

I hear you sang today, the Lord's Prayer,
to a roomful of mourners;
and in between the lines Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
they could hear the dripping from the eaves.
A warm wind; the lull of comfort
that softens the earth a little before the storm.

If I'm going to crack
in the middle of a service, it's usually
right there -
Thy kingdom come
(and the sharpness of longing)
Thy will be done
(and the joyful fruitlessness
of submission)
On earth as it is
in Heaven.
You can't sing if you're crying,
you can only whisper your prayers.

Dry pavement under your wheels,
thin shoulders squared to
what's behind you.
The whiteness comes on, obliterating stars,
and I hope your clear blue voice
rests now; on the earth
where it welcomed you,
that your tears had their turn.