Just Asking

If I write my own prayer, what will I say?
If I listen to my own voice, what will I hear?
How will I address the Deep, what name can I call?
     Such shared questions these are!
     Variations echo all around, spoken,
     Perhaps only thought, by myriad
     Anonymous mystics or identified saints,
     Tentative precedence to this prayer.

Thou Greater than I, cleft my tongue from my mouth's roof,
And my throat will catch, ache, keen while
My eyes swim in unshed tears, while
My heart brain flails once in humility at
The sense of smallness generated by
Unknowing.
Will I drown, wondering in mystery?

Drift in this, still breathing, small meek speck.
Float.  Periphery's fog faintly limns tradition's glyphs yet.
I glimpse them--big disembodied hands edged by
Clean, neat Jerusalem sleeves reach quickly gently
To save the Child who ardently desires salvation.
In exchange for simple Love.  Faith.
Uncomprehended.  Simple is the key, but age is the lock.

Can't seem to draw back from the complex of
Being.  Old.
Float and wait.

copyright Sandy