Morning Prayer

The summer air above me thin and warm,
I tiptoe around the silent morning,
a monk in a light blue nightgown that must be
too short to be considered meditation attire.

The squirrels rustle the hazelnut trees in crunchy staccato
as I try to make it to the blueberry bushes and not disturb their Sunday feast.
The quiet so thick, it feels I carry it around with me like an oversized blanket
that gets hung up on tree branches and sticky spiderwebs.

The silence expands like air in an inflating balloon,
bumping its way across thorny roses and spiny blackberry vines.
My fingers ligthly inky and red with the taste of earth and blood on my tongue,
I hum a tune I remember from my childhood cathechism days.


Trudi Ralston.
July 17th, 2016.