Collect for the Feast of All Saints

If we find an approximal
peace with lost cats—
sardine teeth
and the evergreen eyes
under deluge Thursday—
and if this autumnal holy
day for every
saint we pray proper—
location of apostrophe,
courage in the new dark—
we’ve done our part
to move faith forward,
knit elect with atomic,
diction thundercloud
high or like unleavened
bread, all depending
on the service edition.
My prayer book fed
on sheet cake and rain,
but no one thunders
proper on the West Coast.
Sunshine drivers
stop anywhere, let you
cross tree-named streets.
Everyone expects
so much. On the plains
we’d halt a secular season
with this blanketing day,
with hours past service:
icons raised,
candles dug
from last year’s boxes,
copy sheets run
so my siblings and I
could shade miracles.
November gets us ready
for Advent the way
Advent gets us ready
for the shanty and the Virgin.
I bow my dull head
at Laurel and Pine,
remember family,
faith, and the blessing
of distance, of
the universe expanding.
The stars gather,
Subarus roll by,
and I whisper—remembered,
proper, the chill
and metered sweetness,
the innocents, the martyred—the collects
that liveth and reigneth
forever and ever
in mine heart, Amen.