More and more, of late, it becomes
difficult to be whole. The uniy of self
is riddled through by doubt, which
devours concentration as small insects
might tunnel through a book seemingly
intact, but torn from certainty.
And there are interruptions. The sun
is torn from me by the wind of seasons changing
merging, breaking, a branch rasps
against the window, voices of children.
Lord, grant me one honesty. What I ask
is not the valour of being sure; perhaps
to hear again the mind, itself, a rivulet
flowing or falling. Yes, even that, and know
it is divinity. But there is nothing
as positive. Only from time to time
when there is no-one near
comes a small sound, as a child's voice,
which I take and pass on to reed and string,
hoping for the one note to appear, and be
wind on high stone, or a river; hoping
somehow to please You with my song.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
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