My tallit is folded in a drawer waiting for me to wrap it
like a warm blanket around myself so my prayers
don’t freeze inside my heart.
I think of it as I stand beneath the live oaks
with tendrils of Spanish moss draped over their branches
and wrapped around their trunks like prayer shawls.
What prayers do the trees offer to God, and will my prayers
be heard if my prayer shawl is folded away in a drawer, only
a silvery gray t-shirt the color of Spanish moss covering my shoulders?
The trees stand in awe of God, and I stand in awe beneath them,
my face turned toward heaven peering through their outstretched branches
in the hope my prayers will join the prayers of the trees.
Unsure what to say, I hesitate to disturb the silence,
the stillness itself a kind of prayer,
as if I’m already standing in heaven.