The Feast of Our Lady of Mercy
Almost entirely new and composed over the past month or so; a first draft, of which next to nothing is left, composed on 9/24/2016
Twelve long years, tonight, have fled.
For all my weeping gratitude and guilt;
My stubbornness which loses just the thing
I want when I persist in my pursuit of it;
My fitful fits of acted-on contrition—
So much mortal sin so covetously clutched—
And burning golden light which pierces all
And draws me in when, shriven, I entreat
You to entreat for us: now, at our end…
Yet for all this, it seems I am a child.
You, who are so close and far above me
(Mothers must stay mysteries to sons:
Familiar, alien, and strange;
Comforting, perhaps, by virtue of
Incomprehensibility);
You firmly make my circuit just;
Are gentle to me, running off and back;
And show such patience to ambivalence.
And there you go; a bonus post in two senses, a (mostly) new poem AND on a non-Friday at that. It’s warm in here, but it’s Autumn after all, we’ll need the heat soon enough. Why not