Between Asking and Knowing

Prayer stands on the tip of cliffs,  

shouting into the unraveling horizon,  

its voice a question woven with hope.  

Meditation sits beneath the oldest tree,  

fingers digging softly into the roots,  

ears pressed to the silence of soil.  

Prayer is the sound of knuckles  

knocking on a door painted with wonder,  

each tap a spark of longing fire.  

Meditation waits, palms open to air,  

cradling the spaces where answers rest,  

unfolding in the weightless breath.  

Together they are the echo’s pulse—  

one cries out across the canyon,  

the other leans in to the quiet.  

Both as ancient as the morning sun,  

both searching the same infinite thread,  

both anchoring the heart to whispering stars.