Sometimes we wait
with our faces turned up
to fall's keen stars,
our chill focus willing
headlights over the farthest hill.
More often we fling
half-thought cries
toward a Being
we only dimly picture:
Please . . . please.
Oh, please. Come.
You manifest Yourself
in a million ways.
But our senses, hungering,
wonder at a void,
wanting nothing so much
as a father's jacket
under our spread fingers,
and the scent of his neck
as he pulls us close.
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