Where Prayers Go?
I do not know where prayers go,
Or what becomes of them below.
Do birds pray when they greet the dawn,
Before the quiet night is gone?
Does the river pray as it winds its way,
Singing softly through night and day?
Do the trees pray, standing still,
Through summer's warmth and winter's chill?
I know there are days when I simply exist,
With my thoughts wrapped in a needless mist.
Chasing worries, small and slight,
While missing the wonder before my sight.
A state that breathes, yet feels apart,
From the deeper rhythm of the heart.
Is prayer a request, a gift, a plea?
Or something else entirely?
Must it always be spoken aloud,
Or hidden beneath a silent cloud?
The flowers bloom without a sound,
Yet beauty follows all around.
The birds still sing with joyful grace,
As if they have found their rightful place.
This morning I stood beneath the sky,
Notebook open, watching time pass by.
Searching for words I wished to write,
While the day unfolded in gentle light.
Then from a branch nearby I heard,
The eager song of a little bird.
No audience gathered, no reason why,
Yet it poured its heart into the sky.
It sang as though the world was new,
As though every hope it held was true.
And listening there, I had to wonder,
If faith is less about seeking answers.
For what was that song, so free, so clear,
If not a prayer for any who hear?
I would not argue what you believe,
Or what you choose to doubt or receive.
The path is yours, as mine is mine,
Each heart follows its own design.
But I remained still beneath the blue,
As the little bird's music grew.
And all at once, it seemed to me,
That prayer may simply be
The soul forgetting its fear for a while,
And meeting the world with an honest smile.
So I listened on, with nothing to say,
My pen suspended halfway.
For some truths arrive without a word,
Carried softly on the song of a bird.
\~KP