How to Pray on the Front Porch

Begin with silence. Unlock the door,
the color of a dimpled sunrise. Spread
unharvested fields, high with grain.

Bird the sky with cardinals and morning
sparrows. Let the summer wind drag
the net on the basketball hoop toward shifting
mulberries, ripe with crimson. Lick a dry pen

and scribble until the words come.
When they do, let them dump, blotches
and clumps falling into the dirt around the iris
stems. Perhaps they wet the cement like rain.

Maybe they explain sleeplessness, your heart, or
the rust on the gutters. Maybe they all end with

question marks. Some days they will stretch their spine
and then curl into a notebook with a yawn, like a blanket
around cold toes. Or like fog lifting from the orchard,

like steam rising off fresh coffee.
Blow gently, sip slowly.

--
Matthew Miller teaches social studies, swings tennis rackets and writes poetry -- all hoping to create home. He and his wife live beside a dilapidating orchard in Indiana, where he tries to shape dead trees into playhouses for his four boys. His poetry has been featured in Whale Road Review, River Mouth Review, EcoTheo Review and Ekstasis Magazine.