Prayer for a Modern Girl

Her face is soft and at ease; serene and unhardened. She looks at the world through fresh, rosy eyes, while her lips unravel themselves easily at the sight of a stranger.

Who are those who hold bitterness in their hearts?

She walks past Round Pond, befriending the crisp July air, twirling twigs between her fingertips, taking refuge underneath the old maple.

A blade of grass feels novel under her nose; a worm akin to an alien. The sight of Queen Anne’s Lace, nearby, reminds her that little else matters, beyond nutrients and light.

She touches the dirt, the earth, the finely divided white flower tops. She grazes her thumbs over their bristly stems, marveling at their symmetry. Here, she touches sustenance. Essentiality. Simplicity. The most elemental. She touches vibrancy and radiance and stamina and conviction. She touches pulp and strength and tissue and humanity. And she touches the ever-present but necessary symbiosis between what it is like to live while simultaneously die; the ceaseless battle of permanence and impermanence; of struggle and belonging; of being pulled up while you are simultaneously being pulled down.

And yet, it is this tension that gives us life.

She sits.
She gazes.
She marvels.
And she breathes.

And as the man jogs by, intent on his iPhone, she can’t help but wonder if it is the cool, callous glass that holds his heart so hostage.



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