Psalm 8, Trinity Sunday Maria Mankin

Maker, Lover, Keeper
I whisper to the moon I meet 
before dawn when my eyes 
are scratchy and spirits low.
The babies are hungry. 
Parents are afraid.
My own breast aches 
with them, waiting, waiting.

I walk the path behind my house 
before the sun has truly risen.
I watch for coyotes, made brave
from thirst in this droughted plain
and stand for awhile watching 
my neighbor’s cattle. 

They are much larger up close
than I used to imagine in my youth 
when I sped by fields in Massachusetts.
Here, in the West, everything feels bigger,
wider, more desperate to be cared for,
and also to be left alone to heal. 

The calves stick close to their mothers
this morning, heads pressed against
them for warmth, content in the belief
that this one being will keep them safe. 
Giver, Gift, and Holy Spirit
I whisper as the sun begins to rise,
shower us with the grace we are afraid
to ask for. Bathe us in your love - 

the same love that shows us the stars
and the path to the water, the new 
sprouted plants in the field and 
the tenacity of our justice seeking spirits
when protection, dignity, and safety
seem lost. I wave to my neighbor. 
I forget to say Amen until I am home
and dressed and the day has properly begun.
Amen and amen and amen