native tongue

a poem

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Prayer belongs to the broken hearted,

the weary,

and those who keep their souls guarded.

For those who leap, spilling laughter while

picking lilacs of the land.

For those who run laps around the spectators,

whose senses lie dormant,

begging to awaken to wonder.

But even there,

prayer holds the aching and the waiting.

In the suffocation of clenched fists

and the exhaling surrender of open hands,

prayer is a wisp—finding its way into

cave and pasture.

For the griever swallowed by galaxies of loss

and the star-crushed lover wishing to be wished upon

with the mind-swept intoxication of bright wine.

For those pinned down by the thumb of suffering,

those spinning on the carousel of cynical snobbery,

and those left parched from the drought of apathy

with its deliciously dry promise of protection—

prayer is yours.

All yours.

Lift your voice,

tune your heart,

pick up your flute

and play with the LORD your God

as your native tongue ignites

a new song.

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