Bio Note: I have an unsettled relationship with the concept of prayer having been raised in a faith-healing family. Healing did not always turn out well, but I've learned to revere gratitude. For more poetry, visit firstname.lastname@example.org.
I Have a Bell
I have a bell my brother gave me, a pyramid of steel large enough to fill the woods with temple song. Lifted by the strong young man who hung its chain to the limb of the elder oak eye-high. A mallet to ring each loss, each momentous time. The vote, the killing on the street. My Sunday morning, my hand that knocks to mourn or bless or pray. Clapper of burnished copper stirs in wind to hit the edges. This what I know of steeples.
Tiny Tibetan prayer flags in the mail ask for donations – they faded in our June sun. Like postage stamps from some faraway place with a flutter of thin men rising and falling in hours of chanting. Today I untie them from the ash tree subject to borers and take them to my garden where a trellis holds pumpkin sprouts unfolding from warming soil. Smooth white seeds I held under my bell in the woods, that rusting gong I rang. To let seeds know my intention. A plan for pies at Thanksgiving when we gather, assemblage of cousins and kids, the grandson born by then that everyone will want to hold – may they be able to this year. A whisper of prayer flags.
Crow on the Road
Persistence, accumulated heat of waning day in the asphalt: crow dance at roadkill skunk torn-up into ragged fur stripes near road striped yellow, no passing. Yet I do pass. Without slowing down, that lingering smell. Lively crow. Full shine crow. My dinner baking in an oven. What I know to be grateful for.
©2021 Tricia Knoll
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