Trees and soil pray with wind
and if there’s no wind, they pray
with stillness. If they are unmoved,
they are closer to themselves.
Wind prays in stillness to find its shape
and prays in tree branches to hear
the harp strings of winter, prays
in ground leaves to shake the land,
prays in green buds to awaken
the cardinal, for color to bloom
a spirit of life out of Earth
in places where my face is not known,
where I tiptoe upon the rock
of mountains who are in constant prayer
to sky and sun. The sun prays to darkness,
realizing it cannot see everything
in the light. In the heaven of goodwill,
of humility, and of compassion,
our own begging becomes a rhythm
of prayer, divine like a being who prays
through their very existence, a prayer
embodying form, movements,
and one’s entire being, in the lungs
and on the lips. No knuckles,
no fingers, manicured or callused,
can pry through this faith, these prayers,
how they are lived, how they are voiced
like the trees, soil, and wind.
-Liza Wolff-Francis
Saturday's Sirens 