The tenuous threads in my strings of logic,
Those points where intellectual rigor has failed
Or merely, perhaps, fallen asleep.
Shamefaced, I admit, I hold too loosely
To the strict principles, those straight-backed chairs
With their unyielding seats, upon which I fidget and shift,
And let slip the patient persistence
Of a mind habituated to careful discipline and slow thought.
But there is a sunlit corner even for such a one as I,
Where, sitting humbly, slightly hunched, in stillness
I cup my warm palms like psalms of adoration
Around the feathered creatures with their quick-beating hearts.
The heart yearns as the mind yearns:
To hold the beautiful mystery thus, and share
This fragile, winged child of heaven
Come down to us in the form of a sacred word.