Spring Prayers

scavenging light with the new buds

photo by Andy Smith with a cameo by Ben

Spring finds me weighed 
down like a stone by the creek.

As I scavenge for light,
small green prayers  
arrive on dry branches.
These timid parishioners 
hold their waiting, wanting 
empty hands up to the sun, 
petitioning their distant god to open 
them in a new and ancient way.

As I walk further along,
the creek a choir on my left, 
I see a courageous prophet 
poking through winter’s shed 
skin. He rises as a shaggy weed  
from the boulder’s unyielding 
stinginess, scraping and prying life 
from the devil’s stiff fist.

Can these reckless shoots trust that
their clean green will save them?
Will it be any protection against 
the cruelties waiting at the edge
of winter’s sharpened knife?

While the uncertainty blows 
through me, for now— 
for now, my borrowed faith 
saves me as I crawl on my knees
out of the stone, 
gleaning light next 
to these sun-baptized buds.

_written March 14 2026

This is another poem that I wrote the bones of as part of Alex Dawson’s Messy Writers Club. I’m still not sure if I’m satisfied with it, but part of why I share poetry on Substack is to try things out and experiment without it needing to be perfect. I’d love to hear from you, what feels complete or confused in this piece? Are there parts that feel stunted or overgrown?

Finally, I’d love to hear who/what is helping you do the hard work of prayer? What is keeping you from growing towards light, if even timidly?

I didn’t get the Open Mic anthology post together in time for last weekend, so look for that this upcoming Saturday.

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