I want my words to become prayers, incense spiraling up . . or is it out . . . to where does it really spiral? Or maybe I should ask to where does it not spiral?

I want language to shape my thoughts and make them hopes, sparkling like a lake caught by the sunlight of an autumn afternoon.

I want the clarity that comes, sometimes, at the end of an hour of walking or staring out across the hillside or writing. Like a period. A dot with defined edges. An end of that idea. The marker that makes space for the new one.

I want a bridge of words where I can sit and watch the river churn below me, apart but not away, not hiding. Just sitting, legs dangling while life passes behind and below me.

I want my writing to find me in here in the midst of all that spirals in my mind and carry me to where I am not and where I am, whole and true. New.

I want this to be prayer, even if it makes no sense but as a sigh.