Poems About Faith

I don't pray the way I was taught—on my knees, hands folded, words memorized like a password to heaven.

Blessed are those who aren't sure. Blessed are those who came to church for the singing, stayed for the quiet,

What I think about most is not the miracles— the water, the wine,

I don't know what I believe but I know the feeling when the light hits the kitchen table

Praise the cracking open of the seed, the blind ambition of the buried root, the robin's first bewildered, breathless creed

A preacher who prayed every night for a sign he was living it right heard thunder at ten