July 2021
Bio Note: I have an unsettled relationship with the concept of prayer having been raised in a faith-healing family. Healing did not always turn out well, but I've learned to revere gratitude. For more poetry, visit triciaknoll@gmail.com.
I Have a Bell
I have a bell my brother gave me,
a pyramid of steel large enough
to fill the woods with temple song.
Lifted by the strong young man
who hung its chain to the limb
of the elder oak eye-high.
A mallet to ring each loss,
each momentous
time. The vote, the killing
on the street. My Sunday
morning, my hand that knocks
to mourn or bless or pray.
Clapper of burnished copper
stirs in wind to hit the edges.
This what I know of steeples.
Prayer Flags
Tiny Tibetan prayer flags in the mail ask for donations –
they faded in our June sun. Like postage stamps
from some faraway place with a flutter of thin men
rising and falling in hours of chanting.
Today I untie them from the ash tree
subject to borers and take them to my garden
where a trellis holds pumpkin sprouts
unfolding from warming soil.
Smooth white seeds I held under my bell
in the woods, that rusting gong
I rang. To let seeds know
my intention. A plan for pies
at Thanksgiving when we gather,
assemblage of cousins and kids,
the grandson born by then
that everyone will want to hold –
may they be able to this year.
A whisper of prayer flags.
Crow on the Road
Persistence, accumulated heat of waning day
in the asphalt: crow dance at roadkill skunk
torn-up into ragged fur stripes near road
striped yellow, no passing.
Yet I do pass. Without slowing down,
that lingering smell. Lively crow. Full
shine crow. My dinner baking in an oven.
What I know to be grateful for.
©2021 Tricia Knoll
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It is very important. -JL