The..

Through the evening air, I hear a soft prayer from a woman,
Which pulls me to a score years behind now, and I see
A child sitting peacefully in his mother's lap, immersed in the voice of her simple prayers,
And she smiles as he smugly looks up at her.

That the hard-nosed philosopher now I am, worshipping logic and slighting "faith",
The mellow prayer makes me weep to return,
To the daily mornings at the old prayer stand, the mother's lap,
Her knowing, smiling faith, and the silence around us.

So it happens that the "wise" self can no longer spew cold fire,
As the warm, tender scent of childhood shrouds me,
Tears away my adult stench,until down on the floor I lie
And weep like a child for the days that past.