How often I have
Called to ponderable
Things: these
Eucalyptus-smelling,
Sea-fogged
Hills
And chimney-hiding
Gorges;
I have called
Boulders to
Enter my poems,
Black dusty
Earth, rangy
Minnesota grass.
Why do I hesitate
Then to
Call to God?
Years ago I
Sat curled up
Behind a shed,
Saying to myself,
"You are a boy
Who will never be heard."
Give up that idea.
You are no
Longer a boy.
Whoever cries
To God over
And over
Hears and is heard.
Cry as this sitar
Cries, let the soul
Cry, no matter, sane
Or mad, let it be,
Let the sound be!




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