Listening at Morning: a prayer poem

sunlight, splashing across fresh-cut grass, leaving diamonds affixed to each blade, like teardrops. criss-crossing tree trunks and branches, still Spring-bare with slightest buds, interlace like fingers in prayer, rising up from the earth. dim, white-washed morning sky, painted too thin across the heavenly canvas, sweeps away yesterday's darkened thoughts, as the birds cry out, "good …