Sometimes in my wild imaginings
I dream that
there is a Prayer book
in my heart.
Some of the pages
are bent and torn.
A few are missing.
Some of the words are faded
and there are pages that are stuck together.
And there are times
when I forget about the Prayer Book
altogether
for days, weeks and months at a time.
The torn bits are remnants
of desperate prayers
shouted into
the shrieking wind of fear.
The pages stuck together
are from times of pain and loss,
when tears are my prayers.
At times
when my tired eyes
cannot make out the words,
I ask the
Inward Teacher to
whisper them in the silence
and they come.
Offtimes the urge
that drives the words,
speaks gratitude,
wonder and forgiveness.
Then the love rises
like a spring in my heart;
the words flow
like a flowerfall
and drench my heart.
In my heart of hearts
there is a Prayer book.
I open it often lately.
It is my soul.