Creativity should always be a form of prayer.
The moment unhooks her corset of wind
and leaves its blue bells dangling
in still air. Her body becomes light
stretching through the trees
and beneath stream water absorbing
the story that takes shape
from whatever shadow
enters the scene, whatever scent
breathes through the ribs
of bulrush or willow, whatever spirit
webs briar and broken rock.
Disrobed and radiant, the moment
settles into her subtle craft -- waiting
for a voice, a hand and quill
to turn the greenwood's flesh
into words. A prayer, a song --
an act of creation.