When the weather breaks
prayers seep through my soul
like warm air mysteriously forming
where winter still abides.
At first it is simply breath.
Then the breath is noticed,
and then all the senses rise -
What I see, what I hear, what I smell
is holy. Is spirit. Is life.
Every hungry vulture, circling the perished;
every horny frog, competing with croaks;
every rotting leaf vanishing into the dirt
and a putrid smell is beautiful. Is me.
Is this consuming hole at my core
that is emptiness and loneliness and
also what it means to be alive.
And then words form, imperfect
like a child in the arms of their mother
droning, “I want Mommy”, when they are tired
or ill. What they mean
is something else. Security
that no human can offer another.
A well-being that we already have,
though we don’t remember where we put it.
And so we pray. Please. I need. I want. I hope.
Even the Thank You is a longing.
And in Spring, the Earth replies,
Yes. Here. Now. You are bone of my bones,
And flesh of my flesh. You are woman.
The winds come, and the seasons cycle,
and change brings answer to our prayers
and reason to pray.
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