je vais porter les graines de moutarde du naufragé.

In Another Year of Fewer Disappointments

The minor angel mops his brow and laughs
his miraculous laugh, ringing with sorrow.
His face—if this is his face—this mask
of wrecked grace says, Sit with me.
Come sit with me for a while.
Ah, to be as wise as he is—

but we can't know what suffering will cost us.
It could cost the very self that longed for it,
that winked at its specter, lurking,
blueing the sky. In the wake of its coming,
the small boat of our souls—
where we imagined we'd ride out the gale
in high style—has splintered and sunk,
one gunwale washed onto the beach
for the jittery, pea-brained seagulls to perch on
and spatter. What does that matter,
the angel asks. One rib made the world once.


Eliza Griswold

wood engraving "The End" by Rockwell Kent