Prayer

A bird is warm and free

to sing or eat a worm

and fly, fly.

I have a stone 

deep in my bowels,

smooth like an egg

but cold.

It will not dislodge

it bears me down

and slowly, slowly,

I petrify.

Fissures forge fine imprints

of  feathered history,

and I grow hard, leached dry,

a fossil on a museum shelf-

beyond reach.

When I die I wish my soul to 

fly.