I heave myself up from rolling
to mumble me and midnight back
Magnificat, a Memorare, fragments
of a Psalm, whatever odds
and ends might tumble through
the waves of sleep and trail off (unheard) to glory
be — how should I dare to offer Him
such meager crumbs of praise?
I shuffle to the window and dip
my head under the half-blind to a breeze
crisp with grass and pine. Below,
a snort and footfall, splotch
I can’t quite see–the apophatic elk,
betrayed by the munch and snicker
of each squeakily-bitten blade.
Above, the moon lies round on the rim
of velvet sky; on the screen, two shafts
of lambent gold, a cross is traced
between her rays and the waking
of my eye.
I the receiver; this world
the gift to bless Him by.