Praying Mantis

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

All day long the mantis is there,

praying atop the tall purple coneflower,

a vestibule to other worlds

Where wise ones answer:

“It’s already been gifted to you,”

And hope we realize this soon enough.

Butterflies come.

Some brilliant and new to air, still

marveling at what has become of them,

Others thin-winged and edge-tattered,

realizing that beauty alone cannot

save a soul.

It’s never over quickly.

When the mantis strikes and takes

a great spangled fritillary into her arms,

folding it against itself so that the underwings

reveal iridescent constellations to the heavens

and the long, soft body is easy to taste,

I must resign myself to this.

I must sit with this, this pain and death

that is an

answer to a prayer,

this sound of tiny mantis mouthparts scissoring

into flesh that yet twitches and I believe

knows the agony of form and spirit.

Yes, I must.

Because this is it. Life.

And it must be looked at and sat with

and listened to long enough to realize

that crickets are chirping and crows cawing

and barred owls asking ‘Who cooks for you?’

and acknowledged that I do this too, every day.

And this is how I remind myself

what it is

to have prayers answered.

This is how I teach my heart gratitude.

~Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World" 


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Blue Lobelia

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

The blue lobelia has arisen

and opened its mouths to

the bumblebees.

These are the days to take

nothing for granted.

That droning cicada might be the last.

That creaking katydid might be the last.

The butterflies are lying, spent, on the ground.

The warblers are starting to sneak away in the night.

The squirrels are frantic.

There is no acorn mast this year.

They wonder how they will ever gather

and open enough walnuts and hickories

to make it through.

Odds are, many of them won’t.

Death frightens.

Maybe I’ll put out corn this winter.

Have I taken the time to search out 

a bird's nest and count the eggs?

Have I sat long enough among 

the tall meadow flowers?

Have I told the fat, rough-bodied toads 

how truly lovely they are?

Have I let at least one mystery 

take hold of me?

What will it be like when the first flurries come?

Will I look back, wondering where I had been all this time?

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author
From "Plant Songs" (a work in progress)

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