Peregrinatio

I thank you God for the death of standing still,
for that leaky old bus station in Indy
where a homeless man sat nearer to you than any saint.

I thank you for orchids resting from the work it takes to be beautiful and the food pantries that do better work than the pew.

I thank you God for the story so far.
For no place to lay my head.
For women in the shape of you and the art of their curves that you commissioned.

I thank you for those well fed Appalachian hills and those petite summer gardens, for thick bread and supper under a fire at night.

I thank you for the dirt on my chest,
and these stained calloused hands that don’t know the work each other does, but witness the strange glory of the call of crows as they head west.