Hands held, perfectly, palm to palm, My lashes settle on moist cheeks, Tickled by stagnant air, reeking Of sour grape wine and stale wafers. I sigh, an exclaimed exhale of Critical dissatisfaction. Not meant for hard, dusty church pews, My wild soul seeks rocky paths, cool Against calloused bare feet, rooted — A white oak twirling in the wind, Green round-edged lobed leaves sky-painting An osprey's thermal pirouette. This is my prayer: a red thread Weaving itself forever strong, One with the larger warp and weft Of Grandmother Spiderwoman.
Journal Prompt: What outdated spiritual patterns and thoughts still restrict you from your connection with the Great Spirit?
