Texture of a Prayer Word James Liter My new home is my old home, a change of textures, nothing more; sometimes a change of language, easily, easily heard, and the remembered scent of wind on my skin: the land’s caress of my soul always known. The texture of welcome: roses on black wings, scolding of jays, prettybird, the melody of red, the texture of life in the flitting of finch nothing more than a whisper of this one tribe, past, present, nothing more than a whisper, so I listen to the wind all night, lest I miss a second, or something else, again. So let die the mundane prayer, only a witness, nothing more, of textured branches of thought – instead I become the weather - a singer of great lakes, we are now one body, fluid, reaching out in finger streams to embrace across the land – the chorus of frogs becomes the chanting of our prayer. I’ve been all night down in the marshes, listening to the wind; the chorus of frogs wooing me into water with their words of prayer, the objects of forgetful sérénité.
© James Liter
My new home is my old home, my prayer word evermore.