What if I choose the simple path,
the one that sometimes smells like bread and jumbled tea bags,
the one that invites ambling walks
and collects people along the way?
Mary hid pencils in the wild so she would never be without,
leaving them for others to find after she died,
tucked into the crooks of trees,
hidden ornaments in bushes.
When I discover one I want to wear it like a talisman,
but I must use it as intended;
a wand to reveal the many hidden nests of the forest,
to sketch the gestures of remembering that surround us crawling, galloping and in flight.
Her nub of a compass is the map maker’s only tool on the path of wandering prayer.
At home I’ll turn the dryer on for a few minutes so your jeans will be warm when you step out into the cold to wait for your bus.
I straighten my pillow so the cat can rest against it,
she won’t move all day,
growing older and fatter with endless delight.
Prayer is always to be found in the ordinary moments of life.
I’m learning to stop chasing golden butterflies that never land.
