Praying with George Herbert in Late Winter

•           1
• In fits and starts, Lord,
•     our words work
• the other side of language
• Where you lie if you can be said
•     to lie. Mercy upon
• the priests who calls on you
• To nurture and to terrorize
•     him, for you oblige
• Mercy upon you, breath's engine
• Returning what is to what is
•     Outside, light swarms
• and particularizes the snow;
• Tree limbs crack with ice
•     and drop. I can say
• there is a larger something
• Inside me. I can say,
•     "Gratitude is
• a strange country." But what
• would I give to live there?
•           2
•     Something breaks in us,
• and keeps breaking. Charity,
•         be severe with me.
• Mercy, lay on your hands.
•     White robes on
• the cypress tree. Sparrows
•         clot the fence posts;
• they hop once and weave
•     through the bleached air.
• Lord, I drift on the words
•         I speak to you –
• the words take on
•     and utter me. In what
• language are you not
•         what we say you are?
• Surprise me, Lord, as a seed
•     Surprises itself...
•           3
•     Today the sun has the inward look
• of the eye of the Christ Child
•     Grace falls at odd angles from heaven
•     To earth: my sins are bright sparks
• in the dark of blamelessness
•     Yes. From my window I watch a boy step
•     backward down the snow-covered road,
• studying his sudden boot tracks.
•     The wedding of his look and the world!
•     And for a moment, Lord, I think
• I understand about you and silence...
•     But what a racket I make in telling you.
• Copyright, 1992, Poetry, by the Modern Poetry Association
• Reprinted by permission of the Editor of Poetry