With All My Complaining
Lord, teach me, by what grace
does the sun humble its rays to the leaves,
and pray, what has shown the leaf how to
humble itself to the ground, and just what
thunders a modest cloud in fecund praise
of soil. Tell me, beloved, how is it, even
with your omniscience, you’ve managed
to humble your breath into my lungs,
your tongue into my cheek,
your pulse through my jugular.
Show me, with guided care, the manner in
which ink bows to its drawn shape, and if
you are ever so generous, ever so merciful,
to part my arrogant ambition open and
kneeling at the altar of awe.
Heavy my heart like a mountain, which
prostrates itself, with time, to the sea.
And the sea, you must know, defers to the sky.
And the sky, oh lord, without protest, heaves
itself into horizon, and horizon into space.
Show me, once more, how to greet,
with humility the unpromised new day.
Such tenderness