Faith Tides

I am Peter at Gethsemane
where I wake to oak
branches suspended,
spinning like hair in water.

Flora’s night
blanched, a prophet’s
chanting, every caesura’s
quiet steeping, transfiguring
grief to alms.

Stop rhythmic
pleas from your verdant
altar, Rabbi,
you rise, taken,
innocent,
like a border child.

I am chasing
you and dawn.
Not on waves
but in anxiety’s
throes with doubt
staining my tongue.