Some send their prayers in smoke and open air.
In that case, all it takes is grass and sage.
And so, I write a poem as a prayer.
We set the sage to flame and with great care,
To follow the traditions of great age.
We send our prayers in smoke and open air.
A custom I remember everywhere,
Transporting me back to Black Hills, a stage
Where song and love are chanted in prayer.
The pen is solitary; sage, we share.
In worshipful ritual, I now engage.
There go our prayers, in smoke and open air.
I don’t think God cares if sage or paper;
They both send a message in smoke or page.
The poetry of nature, this day is our prayer.
It’s been ages since I sent a prayer up there,
And many more since picking prairie sage.
God hears our prayers from smoke and open air.
And so, I write this poem as a prayer.