By Lewis Spaulding
our prayer flags…
are trampled, torn
and wire wrapped
our cairns…
lean left and tumble
the smoke from our prayer papers
hang with no ascension…
prayers
slide off our tongues
mix with drool
and fall… unheard
so we wove our prayers
into cloth
the shuttle our quill
thanks from the weft
pleas from the warp
a cloth of gold
or as close as we could come
so wear this
and walk through their lines
let the messenger be
the message
Lewis Spaulding found himself writing many poems thirty years ago while in college and was fortunate to enjoy publication of some of them. Now he finds himself waking the poetry path again, with new discoveries around each bend. He lives on San Juan Island.
All work by Lewis Spaulding
