Polly Cannon's Day Job

she feels sorry for gods because they think
they’re God. She sniffs at wind (they smell of last
year’s blooms) finding neglected shrines that cast
long shadows. She leaves them something to drink
or eat. Small kindness that might guard this place
or that. She knows this holiness is small
but honest. She hears these lost beings call
her name, she sees a tree unveil an old face.
Her own offerings may ease the long pain
of their empty powers. The poor gods rule
nothing now. Not wind, no sky. No one else
will pray to them. She whispers, soft, the names
they once owned. She doesn’t attempt to school
their emptiness, just leaves a gift of self.