A Poem: How Poets Pray

Poets pray continuously.
How they praise things to keep them returning;
the morning breaking,
the humming kettle,
the sounds of beloved humans,
the soft haired cat.

Poets pray when walking.
How they pray to the frost tipped grass,
the red tree aflame,
the cloud’s movements upon the horizon.
How everything seen registers,
that the practice of non-attachment
becomes superfluous.

And yet, everything matters,
that nothing can be deemed more important.
There is always something new to
praise,
something continual in the gifts strewn,
that the giver becomes the one regarded
above all else.

Poets praise,
and in the praising become keepers of things.
While everything in some sense fades–
sunset hues,
the sublime blue winter’s day,
the morning star‒

poets become the recorders of things;
the smile from a friend,
a joke passed between strangers,
another’s extra-ordinary act of kindness.

Nothing goes unnoted,
with all the poet loves inscribed
upon the heart with indelible ink,
that it steeps into the soul,
and as tea leaves is read.

And so, a poet prays and points,
and prays again.
As a well recognising its source
and daily declaring how we cannot run dry.
The grass speaks to this,
and the bare branched limbs of trees
etched against the dawn.

Everything is a cause for
thank you;
or it’s a promissory note,
or it’s a kind of certainty
which draws praise forth.

Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
June 2023