Prayer Still Praying Itself into Being by Sandy Coomer

I park by the side of the road to watch
the sunrise spread pink and orange
across a blue-gray sky. It lasts
only a moment. The sun peels layers
of night from the grass and trees, fence line
and cows—a translucence shifting to solid.

I hold moments of knowing and not knowing,
seeing and not seeing, the potential and hope
of the morning awakened. Is this prayer—
the kind that repeats itself until it gets it right,
the words at first clumsy and inept, stumbling
across the dark field of loneliness?

I don’t know if the emptiness inside me
is the shape of God or a bowl of grief,
hollowed out with suffering.

I watch the newborn day break into the clang
of the world, clutching air, the arrival wet
and cold. The sun floods the sky, the pink haze
reflects in the puddles on the street
and the hour is alive with a willingness
to belong to something larger than itself.

Perhaps, this is prayer then—the certainty
that every day is uncertain, even as morning
overcomes darkness and with night,
is itself overcome. Perhaps, prayer
has no words, but waits with me, rising
toward the unfailing, unflinching light.

— from Juniper Volume 7, Issue 3