All elsewhere being World,
how many times have I stood
in the bright shadows of a wood,
no track or trail leading in, out-
as though ground cover
renewed as I went through?
I sometimes own the moments where I stand
alone. Everything else is air
and arbitrary firings of neurons
we call memory if they happened,
fantasy if they didn’t- same pictures.
Call it prayer, then,
the moments where I’m not aware
even of how lovely the moment is-
not liking, not disliking-
not aware there is a moment
until I’m back in the world
and remember it- construct it
in my mind as having been beautiful.
I’m too often bitten by silence.
My mother called it dawdling,
the ex, brooding. My students call it
The kindest students bring me back gently.
But I live most when silence,
shade, and light like this harvest me,
a kind of prayer I’m gathered to,
not the prayer I clutter with will or words.“