Sometimes, I pray while making toast.
When I kneel to pick weeds
and find a nickel buried
deep
beneath rocks and dead leaves, I pray, too.  

And sometimes,
if my throat clings dryly to a scream,
I’ll pray again.

Right now,
sitting on this broken-down front porch in my grandmother’s chair,
I’m praying that
I never forget the way her mother-arms wrapped around me
or that summer( miles away now)
that Laura Ingalls Wilder taught me all about sucker slugs and chiggers.

You know, in my 20s, 
I never knew what it could be like,
what it could mean to feel delicate 
with velvet skin,
so I’m praying
that I keep summering
in this self-love
for a few more days
or weeks
… maybe forever.

Also, my stubbornness is quiet after I pray.