A SMALL SYSTEM OF BELIEF

by Denise Rue

I believe in the minutes, tick
of seconds that tether me to this earth.

Hollow of my daughter's hand, freckles
flung on my son's cheeks each summer.

I believe in bread and broth, my mother's Banshee
lullabies, grandmother's famined grave.

The tollbooth operator who plants geraniums
in the concrete boat at Exit 51.

I believe in my father's calloused hands
opening a book to save its spine.

The afternoon's diaspora of clouds,
the light at dusk, which asks nothing.

I believe in the grace that straightens
my knees when I rise from prayer.

Someday, perhaps, I'll believe in the hours
and tomorrow. But for today,

there's a sparrow trilling
in the arms of the oak.

And your hand, that prodigal,
touching my cheek.