THE SILVER LEAVES OF PRAYER
(c) Laura Stamps
How can this kitten limp in my arms,
his head and quiet breath resting on
my shoulder, not be a sweet prayer
whispered in love, or an answered
prayer wrapped in a black purse of
soft fur? Sometimes he is a wiggling
line of poetry scribbled on scrap paper
and tucked in my pocket: a folded prayer
warm with moss-music and metaphor.
He can be all of this within minutes,
usually that fluttering space of time
just before dawn, when the sun rushes
the new day in the thunder of crickets,
while birds stutter and clear their throats,
stacking well-weathered songs on the
grass, these feathered prayers of the
dark morning hours. And what of love?
When I can see love everywhere, bubbling
up among oak, persimmon, and dandelion,
seeping between each nimble surface,
then my life has become such a prayer.
(c) Laura Stamps
How can this kitten limp in my arms,
his head and quiet breath resting on
my shoulder, not be a sweet prayer
whispered in love, or an answered
prayer wrapped in a black purse of
soft fur? Sometimes he is a wiggling
line of poetry scribbled on scrap paper
and tucked in my pocket: a folded prayer
warm with moss-music and metaphor.
He can be all of this within minutes,
usually that fluttering space of time
just before dawn, when the sun rushes
the new day in the thunder of crickets,
while birds stutter and clear their throats,
stacking well-weathered songs on the
grass, these feathered prayers of the
dark morning hours. And what of love?
When I can see love everywhere, bubbling
up among oak, persimmon, and dandelion,
seeping between each nimble surface,
then my life has become such a prayer.
