Starting to Pray

A Sonnet

I still feel this is talking to myself
expanding space through an infinite void
with rude questions and answers that play coy
to waltzing wit sonnets that write themselves.
I talk to you instead of the big man
because you write back, always write mother
summer camp letters penned under cover,
and maybe all this is his special plan.
Perhaps, he speaks to me through your angel,
as Lazarus nourished our thirsting Christ
with wetted fingers from high heaven’s ice,
maybe his absence was Jesus in Hell.
	Now I know Jesus will take care of me,
	now I have wedded a rich man indeed.