A Letter from St. Patrick to his Father, written in his head

I have begun
to learn
to pray
again.

Now I see
that prayer
is not
a wooden
fence I try

to build. Rather it is
the chink
between
the splinters
of the wood,

that widens
when the sheep
lean blindly
against it,
and whistles
when the wind

sears through it;
a note sounds clear
into the air.

 

Published in Sehnsucht: the C.S. Lewis Journal, 2014 edition

Copyright: Meredith Moench

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