Primitive Prayer  
 
I go outside at sundown,
pinning the stained-glass trail
to the Earth with ice cleats,
 
glorious snow under my feet.
The hawk screams above Creek Road.
Does anybody live in that blue house?
 
Hopper lonely, so Hopper lonely.
The snowbank at the side of the road
sits in the shape of a pew,
 
but I’d rather move with the mallards
slapping their wet feet, ready to fly.
I’m ready.
 
A songbird pounds
his pipe organ in the sky,
calling me up the hill.
 
I climb
breathing in the night air,
revived by this primitive prayer.
 

Published in Bluebird Word

Artist: "Jenni" Guinevere von Sneeden, @j_w_sneeden