Winter Prayer

Perhaps winter is the hush of night settling over my thoughts. There is nothing to push against as a dark cloud floats over the moon and is immediately outlined in gold, burying the world’s bustle under the weight of no sound.

Maybe prayer is more than the silence that blankets the trail turning down a steep hill, more than the cold, glistening fog that dims the cabin’s light from all who approach; more than a warm gust of wood smoke emerging from the chimney lit by sparks that fly and swirl on a rising wind. Maybe prayer lives in the fingers of children who have touched their hand to the flame just as the body snatches it away. Why does the heat hurt? they wonder as they reach out to touch it again.