Apologia for Prayer
“If I should die before I wake . . . ”
And it’s not as though staying awake will save you. Think of those things outside even Jove’s control: the blast, the bullet, the careening car, funneling wind, voracious fire. Think of Vesuvius spewing, Pompeii’s people silent, silted.
Like boarding a train, prayer is homage to the leaping hour. It follows then that prayers unsaid are a dance refused, a gift unsent or put away unused, the soul’s torpor on a hot afternoon and no rain falling.