A Prayer

Dear God,
If You care,
Please help me.

If You are there
At the end of this prayer,
Give me a sign.

Though I can hardly speak,
And my signal is weak,
Reply if You can.

Even if You disguise your response
In the wind whispering through the birch trees
On the foothills of the mountains of Haute-Savoie,

Or in the murmur of the turquoise streams
Rushing with purpose down their rocky chutes,

Or in the scamperings of woodland mice
Seeking the knife-parings of pilgrims' cheese
Beneath this rough-hewn bench and table
Before this wooden hunting lodge.

Dear God,
If You care,
If You are there,
Please help me,
For now I need You more than ever,
And I am desperate to find meaning
In something more than landscape.

Dear God, You could say,
In a way, all my vain pilgrimages
Have led up to this time, this place:

This wayside cross, these offerings
Of stones and flowers crowding the base,
This niche
Jammed with a tiny statue of Saint James,
This stumbling prayer,
This weak and human message,
This plea, this faint voice
Appealing to You
Over the vast green forestlands
Of this jag-peaked and beautiful country.