A PRAYER FOR SEPTEM-BER 27

EMBER JONES


In the southern Appalachians, there are no hurricanes.
We touch no oceans. We are mountains clothed in mist 
  and velvet moss, and in the fall, we are wildfires burning
   through the night. Today, we are a river of wind. 
    Let it wash away your car, your home, your garden. 
     There will be no Ark to carry you. There is no lightning  
      to split the earth into sky and ocean: there are only sheets  
       of rain. The trees bring their fire to the ground. The gingkos  
        surrender their yellow leaves. And the mountains—I can hear  
         the groan of rock and mud against the storm. River, if you  
          wash us away, please save your gentlest winds for the birds,  
           the salamanders, the ground mice, the beetles. Or take me next.  
            I am scared, but I am yours to carry if only you wash us gently  
             to deliverance. Fill me with earth, with water, with leaves.  
              I don’t want to go. But if I must, please teach me of force,  
               of wilderness in a way my heart can understand. Teach me  
                to do what I must. Teach me to become the river that swallows  
                 fire. Wash away my human and feed me animal’s instinct.  
                  I am a rabbit sheltering on high ground. I am a bird’s nest  
                   with wind-shattered eggs. If there will be no Ark, river,  
                    then teach me to let go. Let me be only breath. Show me how  
                      to become the wildflower that sprouts just after the storm.