I mow in heat and sweat and dirt and I’m soiled.
I sense my smell ~ I’m sure now ~ while praying
Like the least one next to me?
Like stepped-on smeared dog shit smell oozing from steel-toed boot’s soul or
From fraying faded butternut brown work pant cuff or
My hoping prayer even while unclean or
I’ve worn the pants too many days or
Is it I’m inured to manure as I walk and push?
The waft breezes through our un&conscious centered cloistered prayers
I transport my work shadow’s aroma in
to the cool and dry and clean centering prayer church sanctuary of my hopes or
After I mow . . . again.