Words which are not
enough—despite our regrets
and longings—mound, swept together
like dead mayflies, brittle
with sorrow nearly
unspeakable. Where is solace
meant to settle, like dew?
A life shatters, its hunger
for wholeness hopefully
drifting toward Mystery,
luring us nearer
that sacred spark and scald—
vitality older than
we dare believe. Prayers may
falter, but know this:
though language flails
and has too often failed us,
our questions spiral,
eventually join
that beguiling Love
that summoned this universe, which,
from our first shuddering breath,
clear through forever, rekindles
the holy flint, blazons our way.
Poem reprinted with permission from Wipf and Stock.
