Even though
I cannot write a poem right now
the world is still full
of poetry;
and the prayers
I am unable to offer right now
the birds still sing and chirp
this morning and the surrounding hills
still heave forth melodious horizon.
The trees, of course, still stand
in admirable witness and their slow song.
And so, this-morning-on-which-I-cannot pray,
I claim these sturdy prayers
as my own.