The Gods who rule the new silences will be ancient gods,
As they have always been.
They will continue to wait for us in green glades.
Their whispers will mingle with the leaves and papers cups that blow
Across the street.
Our prayers will remain the ancient prayers:
Please please, Tiger Tiger, please do not eat me.
Please please, rotting corn, please feed me.
Please please, pestilence take my neighbor first.
Please, car, please, start up one more time.
Oh, Digital Nymph, please reboot, please come back, please save what
I forgot to save. I will be good next time. I will back up my hard drive.
I will do whatever you want.
Save me. Fix what I have broken.
Those who do not believe in you don’t mean it.
They believe when their keys fall between the iron slats of a storm
They believe that you control arrivals and departures.
They believe in the sacraments of inconvenience.
I will shout your praises from the tops of mountain tops,
Which will feel like standing on a wet cardboard box.
I will remind all those modern souls of the ancient floods.
I will say what we all will say,
“Get me out of here.”
The Golden Bough will bow down and dip into the rising waters.