prayer in my pocket
prayer in my pocket
For the wind no one expected, the one that shook the autumn leaves free and for the man I saw raking leaves on that windy day, not at all looking frantic, looking quite zen as he pulled the rake in and set it back out again. For the urge I had to yell out my car window to tell him about futility, how there are leaves from down the block making their way to his yard. And for the wisdom to see it wasn’t about the leaves at all and for the beauty in the brief glimpse of a man in the grass with a rake and the wind bending and stretching branches over his head.
For the pinecones that drop from the blue spruce. For the clover that persists in the front yard. For hydrangeas that bend too far over my driveway. For elderberry and blueberry and huckleberry on my route to work. For the corny Halloween decorations at the office and the bowl of candy corn on the corner of the reception desk. For the sound of the copier, the beep of the front door when it opens and the smell of someone’s frozen lasagna cooking in the microwave at Noon. For emails and voicemails and regular old mail. For spreadsheets and project codes and contracts and the faux jade plant on top of the file cabinet that reminds me of real plants, that real life is waiting for me at 5 pm.
For the rain this morning, the rain they say will turn to snow by afternoon. For the boots and umbrellas that will adorn the sidewalks, for worms surfacing for one last swim before winter, and for the wrens who will wait for them. For water gathering in the low spots of streets, for drops that speckle the glass on my windows. For the cat sitting on the window ledge looking forlorn. For children stomping or looking for reflections in puddles. For the ones who will see snowflakes gathering on the grass for the first time ever, on this day.
For the sun that will hide behind the dark clouds, but bring on a spread of daylight anyway. For that relentless rotation of the Earth we all take for granted. And for this particular place in the path around the sun that isn’t summer, but isn’t winter yet either. For this in-between place, where everything is in flux, everything on its way to somewhere else.
For dawns and dusks and how the light makes everything look magical at the beginning and the end, and how magic is harder to find in between. For the courage to close my eyes and trust that waking will return. For the blackest night and the dead quiet of the neighborhood at 3 am.
For moments and hours, for weeks and weekends. For months and seasons that grow into years and years and years.
Copyright Cynthia Berg 2017