Christine McNeill
Little Soul
They say being is prayer.
Hoovering the carpet,
running over thousands
of invisible mites –
am I in touch with God?
Spooning broth into my
baby’s mouth, while deer
at the edge of woods
drink in dawn –
is this an extension of God?
A scent so strong from the
opened washing machine –
the freshness of every season
leaps from contorted clothes
and pleasure is handed like sun to a window –
is this an act of prayer:
stirring the cooking pot
till the aroma of its ingredients
turns into a lit trail
and my breath owns all the walls?
Page(s) 65
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