Saturday, June 25, 2011

The First Morning

This is a place to pray.
I place “where prayer has been valid”*
Here there is an ache in the ribcage,
And against the throat, and in the pit of the stomach.
An ache of loss, and suffering, and resilience, through a battering,
Like the cold gray swells that that pound against the coast.
Even the young, greening trees are hushed into reverence in the morning,
They sway meekly, afraid to make a sound.
The threefold white of the sea and the sky and the mist in the dawning air hallows the room so early, that there is little chance of sleeping late. But I am satisfied with a rest no sleep could give.
A rain begins,
Pattering on the left-side panes,
Blending into a rhythm on the lawn.
The night is gone.
An un-met future awaits me.
The un-wet rocks are not convinced that my pleasure in them warrants my acceptance.
But there is little that cannot be worn away
By patient love.

*T.S. Eliot, The Four Quartets: Little Gidding

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