Rising in Perilous Hope
What can I hold in my hands this morning that will not flow through my fingers? What words can I say that will catch in your mind like burrs, chiggers that burrow? If my touch could heal, I would lay my hands on your bent head and bellow prayers. If my words could change the weather or the government or the way the world twists and guts us, fast or slow, what could I do but what I do now? I fit words together and say them; it is a given like the color of my eyes. I hope it makes a small difference, as I hope the drought will break and the morning come rising out of the ocean wearing a cloak of clean sweet mist and swirling terns.
by Marge Piercy from Colors Passing Through Us (Alfred A. Knoff, 2003)
“The grace of God comes swiftly to the soul when endurance is no longer possible.”