for Steph Davis
Triangles of earth rise steeply in prayer.
Clean lines carry steps and the rhythm
of an un-tethered worshiper,
breathless. You reach the crux,
scrub away the myth of "what if" and find
fragile footprints, a small voice
pulling you up.
I reach up, catch these words from the sky
floating down from your voice and know:
it's not what but how
it's not where but with whom
and the answer