All the Modest Miracles

This is the fire

when truth spills out

of a poem.  You were one thing,

but deep with writing, you

become a being aflame.

This is the air

I am exchanging with you.

It has touched everything

on Earth in its own time. It lives in

all the right fires.

We are two pages in a book, stitched

side by side.  Our words are different

but we feed each other

meaning, forking our eyes

at each other’s print,

recognizing the modest miracles

that ask for nothing.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2019

Heartbeat of the World

Sometimes the heartbeat of the world

is measured out so sweet

in lamb bleats and liquid birdsong.

Sometimes you hear it,

an echo at the end of a sunset

and the truth of it dances in your core.

Sometimes the pulse of Earth

swells and swings as slow as a mountain grows

then rolls itself down as sand to the sea.

Sometimes it vibrates like honeybees

or makes the hollow sound of loss

or keeps the cool silence of fossils.

Someday I’ll hand my pulse back to the world.

I’ll go willingly.

Listen for me at sunset, or where redwing blackbird

clasps the cattails and sings

and sings.

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2019

That is You

I looked upon the white-coated mountain

and All that is Holy, She said “That is you.”

I lay in the shade of a towering maple

and All that is Holy, He said “That is you.”

I played tag with the ocean’s waves

and All that is Holy, They said “That is you.”

I danced with the fire by night

and All that is Holy, We said “That is You.”

I held an old, old kitty as he breathed his last breath

and All that is Holy, One said “That is you.”

I wept with a lost refugee

and All that is Holy, All said “That is you.”

I saw my reflection in a deep still pool

and All that is Holy, I said “I am You.”

J. Pratt-Walter, (c) 2019