Fallen Prayer

In the morning my prayer was a small earthworm stranded

in night’s dew on an unforgiving path.

Knees bent, I tenderly placed him in wet soil, my Amen.


At midday my prayer was the tumbled willow by the stream, still

unfurling her wands and catkins in long graceful whips.

I marveled at how the weather wove her patterns into my Amen.


Near dark my prayer was an injured thrush rolling in fright

in the brush.  She scolded me as I turned her over,

seeking the injury.  Maybe both a wing

and a leg were broken.  She could not stay upright, she could not

rest.  I contemplated taking her home, putting her in a box

with water and soft grasses, feeding her the worms. 


She watched me sideways then

partly closed her pale eyelids from the bottom up.

Her pulse was a thin vibration, her breathing a tangle.

I set her gently at the base of the fallen willow, covered her

with the kind grasses and walked away.  I have not yet found

an Amen. 


J. Pratt-Walter (c) 2020