I Don't Pray Anymore.

I don't pray anymore. It's against my religion.

Don't feel shock or pity. A distinct path led me here, to this spot of theological peace that I've carved out for myself. It's somewhere in the vicinity of my front porch, where almost any day I can see the sun rise over a wheat field the color of honey. Where the wind hushes the core of me even as it brushes auburn hair across the faded freckles on my cheek and shuts softly the lids of my eyes. Where I inhale things like the smell of rain and the smell after the rain and the smell of freshly cut hay. The smell of twilight. Where hopscotch and rainbows, dragons and tic-tac-toe tile the concrete under my bare feet. Where a million stars leak through the black roof of this big sky every clear night. Where I feel love . . . and loved.

From this front porch, how could I petition any God, depositing prayers like coins in a cosmic vending machine, choosing my blessing du jour by punching the buttons of my choice? How could I do anything but stand, drenched in gratitude, my chest open to the sky, and feel . . . thankful?

Earthgirl's Solid Ground.

On his 41st birthday.

When I met him he kept a saddle tree in his living room. He had a horse named Hank and a dog named Blue, and he mowed his yard with a five-foot brush hog. He did not own a tie. When his 6-foot, 5-inch, 240-pound frame first filled the doorway of my sad apartment, I knew he was a man's man and a woman's dream. When he walked me to his dirt-drenched Ford 3/4-ton, I laughed and got in.

Thirteen years have brought some change. Hank died three winters ago. I and my Toro ZTR are the lawn mowers now. And the saddle tree has been moved to our seven-year-old son's bedroom (on it, he and his sister have ridden miles across the range, shooting the bad guys and rescuing each other from wolves and bandits).

Thankfully, many things are unchanged. He's still 6'5" and 240 pounds, and he fills up the doorway of our house every afternoon around 4:30. His roots hold tight in the red clay of this 500-acre slice of prairie, and he stands strong and unmoving under this million-acre sky.

I'm still earthgirl. He's still solid ground . . . and you know what? He still doesn't own a tie.

Poem 004-09 | Poem 007-09

Or, reflections on my first original art purchase: two "poems" by Michi Susan.

What will I do with this art?

What will I do with the hand-made paper and the white string snaking through the paper? With the rain-soaked ink and the harlotry of the red and the regalia of the gold?

Will I remove the shiny cellophane and hear them inhale? Will I corral them in frames to keep their energy from spilling into this open range?

Will I rename them--these created congregations of ink and ilk--and so suggest that I own them?

Or will I write them down?