I’m not much for poetry, really. My favorite poets, in no particular order, are Shel Silverstein, Dr. Seuss, and my husband. So when I come across a poem that moves me, it’s quite unusual. And wonderful. Which is probably the best way to enjoy poetry, even if it’s not often.

Yesterday, a poem grabbed me. Enough to make me think I might want to read more of this author. Here it is.

i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth’s own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

 

– e.e.cummings