I return to this poem often. At times it is prayer connecting me to something greater than myself. Other times I go cold, reminded of my isolation. We believe. We doubt. We look for signs and stand in silence waiting.
Veni Creator by Czeslaw Milosz
Come, Holy Spirit,
bending or not bending the grasses,
appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,
at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards or when snow
covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada.
I am only a man: I need visible signs.
I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction.
Many a time I asked, you know it well, that the statue in church
lifts its hand, only once, just once, for me.
But I understand that signs must be human,
therefore call one man, anywhere on earth,
not me—after all I have some decency—
and allow me, when I look at him, to marvel at you.
I think we chatted on Czeslaw Milosz before. An amazing poet. Thanks David, Onward we go.
He is Michael…and we did…