It doesn’t matter
where I begin
or how it begins.
It could be a tulip in its last day of bloom
or a baby pine sprinkled with snow
or a walnut in its shell
or a stone from the river bed at a sacred site.

It could be a chipmunk
or the scurrying of a chipmunk
on the pile of fresh cut oak
fragrant in the peripheral of dawn’s first light.

Could be the deer
eating the apple
or the deer dung
or the emerald patch of moss
where the dung was dropped.

I find it quite impossible
to begin a prayer.
It’s already going on
All the time
everywhere.