Father,
Here before You I spread
My writing and my wishes and my dread:
Things that I have mangled, not done at all, forgot;
Things that I have held too close, or never truly sought;
All the run-on sentences, the fragments and blank notes,
the misspellings of Your truth, the dulling out of hope.
It's awful hard to hear You, over all this mess--
is that Your voice I hear? Or only my regret?
I don't know how Your poet's hand will make something of me.
Just help me listen, for once, instead of speak!
Wow! You express it so beautifully. You give words to my heart tonight! <3
ReplyDeleteI'm so glad this blessed you, KattyRae! It's funny how we can write something that's been on our heart, and then find that it's on someone else's, too. One of the great joys or writing, I think!
ReplyDeleteWriting as life . . . fantastic, Elena!
ReplyDelete