Sunday Morning

In my room, 

messy like the world,

My dogs sleep peacefully.

Their snores are music from their dreams.
I join my mountains in their devotions

To the sky, insects, coyotes, dear, all animals,
all people trampling on trails.

Awed, I stare at this rocky mass 

Jutting into air, so serene

It slows the rhythm of my worries.

But I cannot be still for long.

Blood rushes through soft flesh,

Limbs swerve, shift, shake.

My mountains shine green with tint of envy,

But speak what any good friend would,

"You can move, I cannot.

Become your own prayer."

Then, through the window in my messy room,

My mountains watch 

As I dance.

For Poets United.