Prayer weaves its lively strands
as we wander around the field
inside a circle we cast in awe of
the center where nothing resides.

We imagine our souls move there
if we die alone, landing in this empty
field dreaming of wild black horses
while we are asleep.

The young ones wonder if
the elders will survive. Why
not? Spirit has plans for us,
even as we stand here

Waiting, seeing what will happen.
This field unites us as we watch
dry lightning and thunder meet.
The trees dance, and the winds

Insist we change. Will the fires
teach us to walk outside the path
of amazement? While inside

This field, ancient stones cascade,
inscribing events of our tumbling
lives. All that matters now is
the field’s magnetic force.
“This is my body and my blood,” they say.
“We receive and give to you our all.”
What if this wait is of our own making?

Surely the facts will not lead us out of
this morass. We are part of something far
greater than ourselves. Winding around
the field’s edge, we stumble into the

Realm of prayer. Outside the field is the fire,
Inside prayer is the flowing vessel of love.
We wait, engulfed by feelings, the emotions

Not of our own making.
The prayers are making us.