by Jean-Paul Thuot
I am not one who prays
the way bees to and from
the field of golden flowers
do not pray
After the sun has passed beyond
the far trees, and dew
begins collecting in the
pregnant air
Moon rising on her course
silent as a sail on unshipped
seas, velvet brocade
of her passing
In all of this — the bees, flowers,
retreating sun, chasing moon
across the dark, where am I,
and who is it that could receive
any hymn
I supplicate my body to the shadowless
cypress beyond the field — one day
the soil will receive my body,
the only prayer I have ever made
Jean-Paul Thuot lives on Lekwungen First Nations land, known as Vancouver Island, British Columbia, Canada where he draws great inspiration from nature and observing humans in all facets of their lives. Writing with vivid imagery and spare language, he seeks to draw attention to the hidden and introspective side of lived experience. His work has been accepted by Marion West, The Brussels Review, Pictura Journal, Touchstone, and most recently by Poetry.ca for their Poem in Your Pocket 2025 collection.
January House Literary Journal 
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