That Other Prayer

That Other Prayer
Bret Hesla © 2017

As I pull lambsquarters from the garden
I cock my arm to toss it into the compost
Then, on second thought
Take a bite of God, and of myself.

As I listen to the downy woodpecker
Hammering on the telephone pole in the alley behind my house
That other prayer
the one made of sentences
Stops making sense

As I breathe in the smell
of the soggy earthworm dirt of April
As I run across the squishy lawn
And my tennis shoes get cold sopping wet
That other prayer
the one made of sentences
Stops making sense

As I walk the gravel road at evening
Noticing the spaces between the noises
of the twilight swampy ditch spring peepers
Listening for the Great Unhearable
That other prayer
the one made of sentences
Stops making sense

The more I give myself to the earth
The less drive I have to figure out, and use,
the name for what I seek
And that other prayer,
The one made of sentences,
Stops making sense

The more I notice and carefully draw
the web patterns in the wings of dragonflies
The more I lose track of time
And that other prayer,
The one made of sentences,
Stops making sense

The more I give my feet to the forest paths
The more I forget to read the map.
Or care if I even brought it.
And that other prayer,
The one made of sentences,
Stops making sense

The more I give my ears
To the rain-drop percussion on the unbrella
The more I relax into the cold trickles
Running down the surprised skin of my back
And that other prayer,
The one made of sentences,
Stops making sense

May “Lost Track of Time”
Be posted on the door of my heart each day
Like a “Back Tomorrow” note
Taped to the door of an abandoned office
On a sunny afternoon in June.

Amen.


Reader: Larry Dittberner
Words by Bret Hesla.

© 2017 Bret Hesla. All rights reserved. Used by permission.
Licensed via OneLicense.net, Contact: Bret.hesla@gmail.com.
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