I NEVER LEARNED TO PRAY

A stubbornness appears
In the pit of my stomach,
Spreads out like cold, blue dye
Through still water under light,
Fills up my limbs and head
And comforts me
As it must indicate a certainty,
Lurking in the liquid
Of my being.

In the unearthly quiet
My body begins to listen,

To taste the high Denver air. 

I see tiny insects twirling
Like points of white light 
In a shaft of afternoon sun.

I feel tiny blades of grass
Under my fingers, 
In the curve of my palm.

I hear the low hum of an air conditioner,
A few neighboring voices, 
Sweet clucks of chickens
In a coop behind me.

I sense my good friend,
Her penetrating eyes,
Purple streaks in her brown hair,
Her little black sneakers
Hooking the plastic chair legs.

I remember:
My mother as a young, kinetic woman,
My sister as a serious child at the family piano,
My nephews, now in the flush of childhood, 
My sweet friends,
All the people I love.

I dream:
Of places I wish to see, 
Things I wish to notice, 
And say and do and make.

I do all this without leaving 
The concrete step on which I sit.
I do it without remembering or dreaming.
I am not even really doing it.

It's no different than watching an ant search this flagstone,
Or feeling my lips with my tongue,
Or hearing the pencil in my friend's hand
Scratch thin lines into a page.

Then, after the stubbornness,
The certainty and quiet and listening,
Remembering and dreaming:

I let go of something,
Like a breath joining the delicious air.