unspoken

her long legs slip onto the pew like a pair of worn blue-jeans.
she is comfortable here, next to me.
my eyes remain fixed forward
as her smallish brown shoulder inserts itself under the cleft of my arm;
she fits, and
i have never felt more grateful, for her;
for a warm body, easeful and close
with its touch of tenderness, of innocence.
i am safe
in the hands of this child.

her slight lips part in prayer.
softly, fervidly, she rolls words off a salty tongue
that smells of morning snack time;
of peanut butter crackers and concentrated orange juice.
her sticky mouth moves, and
i too, pray
that there is a God whose ears reach beyond the limits of my hearing
that her words, in their smallness,
are significant.

she prefaces my name with "miss,"
but she is my teacher--
eyes wide and ready to receive
whatever we do not withhold, from her
wanting eyes
from waiting fingers
wrapping themselves around wishes wasted with words.

when she turns her round brown windows toward me,
they open into my soul, where
i hear a song gently sung:
some prayers are better left unspoken.