No story can contain you

beyond all that pain has taught

me, the soft well at the base of

time has opened, and life

touching me there

has turned me into a flower

that prays for rain. Now

I understand: to blossom

is to pray, to wilt and shed

is to pray, to turn to mulch

is to pray, to stretch in the dark

is to pray, to break surface

after great months of ice

is to pray, and to squeeze love

up the stalky center toward the

sky with only dreams of color

is to pray, and finally to unfold

again as if never before

is to be the prayer.

Mark Neposwann-before-house

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