By Jenneth Graser —
I find you under crushed weeds lining the path
of our morning rambles.
Someone got here first and strew them out of the way,
pulled up by the roots.
How many things are you pulling up by the root
to reveal the turned over loam in us?
The sun briskly challenges the mountain,
which cannot hold back the pure poured-out light
generously misting the dew amongst reeds,
all standing like champions and witnesses.
I am being attended by the chorus of rooster,
a playful enterprise of birds so unafraid.
My prayers tumble out of my mouth
into the cracks of the valley, exposing lies for lies,
truth for truth.
We can walk here and stop being fearful of
what could be lurking in every unknown future.
We can run here and feel what it is to
have the blood surge through our muscles,
reminding us that we are a body too,
a temple called into the holy of a body-made prayer.
First thing in the morning, when the sun is bursting
at its seams with enthusiasm and there is
so much breath puffing out like clouds
all over the trails, and the day is waking, waking,
waking up all over the place.
I am waking up too.