She found the valleys good for prayer, there in the hollows between tree and stream where other women feared to leave evidence of their passage. There in the alone spaces she wove the fabric of her petitions, knees bent to the ground, head hidden among the larkspurs and gypsy Queen Anne's lace. There beneath the garish sun and lambent moon she moved in tireless benediction until at the last he came. Unbridled and fluid, a kaleidoscope of perfect possibilities dropped like gems at her feet, and she looked at him with a knowledge older than the stuff of her bones.
©2010 Stephanie Wright