Have You Prayed

by Li-Young Lee

When the wind
turns and asks, in my father’s voice,

Have you prayed?

I know three things. One:

I’m never finished answering to the dead.

Two: A man is four winds and three fires.

And the four winds are his father’s voice,

his mother’s voice . . .

Or maybe he’s seven winds and ten fires.

And the fires are seeing, hearing, touching,

dreaming, thinking . . .

Or is he the breath of God?

When the wind turns traveler

and asks, in my father’s voice, Have you prayed?

I remember three things.

One: A father’s love

is milk and sugar,

two-thirds worry, two-thirds grief, and what’s left over

is trimmed and leavened to make the bread

the dead and the living share.

And patience? That’s to endure

the terrible leavening and kneading.

And wisdom? That’s my father’s face in sleep.

When the wind

asks, Have you prayed?

I know it’s only me

reminding myself

a flower is one station between

earth’s wish and earth’s rapture, and blood

was fire, salt, and breath long before

it quickened any wand or branch, any limb

that woke speaking. It’s just me

in the gowns of the wind,

or my father through me, asking,

Have you found your refuge yet?

asking, Are you happy?

Strange. A troubled father. A happy son.

The wind with a voice. And me talking to no one.