Sage

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.

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