Читать книгу Twisted Shapes of Light - William Jolliff - Страница 16

I knew they would come from the very pour.

I could just as easily have been the floor

of someone’s garage, a bicycle rack,

a boat ramp, a barn, a sidewalk, sure to crack—

so this path seemed my destiny

charted in the stars before I came to be.

In the circling strokes of the stainer’s brush

I knew each pilgrim’s sole, each holy touch,

and felt each weight, the tapping of each stick,

the pacing desperation of the sick,

the sorrow of lovers, their bitterness,

each shivering touch, each unreturned caress,

the leaden chest that heaves when faith is lost,

the hollowness of unbelief, the cost

that must be paid for quiet vanities,

the rage that robs the over-wise of peace.

Some come to beg forgiveness, some to rant.

Some come to pray; some come because they can’t.

I serve them all, and on my concrete way

they learn as much as their steps will let me say.

Like any winter road, I’ve felt the burn of salt,

the throb of loss, when the heart’s like a vault

without a key. But sometimes doors fall open.

I’m only the stone, but I help that happen.