Читать книгу These Intricacies - David Harrity - Страница 9

There are words I seem to only say with you,

but I try to pray in spite of that. I say them

as I walk this cut bank by the creek,

as the morning’s ice storm shines

like all the words you use to talk to God.

I bow to silver trees, to white fire glazing bright

and what the new snow hides beneath—

shallow water soon to feed the fields, green

born from a melt of sleet. This is how

the things of earth put away the past:

it’s another diagnosis, another glum return

from sickness. I want to have good words

to say to you when I come home, but seem

stuck on the differences between a quiet

and a silence: that what finds its way to voice

with us hopes for more than spent uncertainty

and the ceaseless, steady thaw of my belief.