Samhita

Well-knit thoughts, the Compositor
Thought, will not serve me well enough
Now. I need magic, mantras, spells,
The prayers to the impossible

That outline the body of hope
Against hope, the human limits,
The weaknesses we acknowledge
By refusing to admit them.

Our truest faiths are our wishes,
Our "go away fever," "come gold,"
"Go away drought; come again rain,"
"Bring this child a spouse and children."

Everyone who prays at all, prays
For these humble things that tell us
Where our unhappiness kneels down
On the shores of our helplessness

And reaches out its trembling arms
To the unimaginable,
Invisible shores where we don't
Have to ask for what we can't have.