A Memory of Prayer

My shins are dirt-covered. My hands tightenround piles of leaves. These trees rise roundclothed in woolen bark and silver lichen.Stained glass sky, branches flux and foil,and kaleidoscopic light strikes the groundwhose green intersects the red soil.This cathedral of helices, of dustmotes that are caught in beams of eye-width lightis where I wait to be lifted beyondthis ground. Lifted bodily through the hushedleaves. It is for this my soul I do dightwith hours here. Pine needle-awnedknees press the dirt. Here a quiet voice speaksbetween the croaks and mutters of birds' beaks