It may be smoke from a wood stove
inside the house across the road
on the other side of the pasture
lingering in the air like prayer
incense not certain how high it
wants to rise, as if there are some
prayers only the earth can answer.
I like the way smoke or fog or mist
gets caught in the tops of trees
like Eros grasping after Psyche,
clutching the edges of the cloak
saying, “Stay. Please stay.”
So I think of the prayers I have
wasted offering them to heaven
when they wanted to be earthbound,
the answers before my eyes, under
my feet, already in my heart.
-Byron Hoot
https://www.facebook.com/hootnhowlpoetry/
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