One of the few ways I can speak to youis sliding nylon hairs over wound aluminum,praying low arpeggios under the choir’s hymn,or reeling in the kitchen as the soup overflows.Today I lamented by the window as autumn’sgray mushrooms beaded the foot of the maple tree.Triple-stopped strings, slightly flattened,my only real cry. You seemed to build heavenfor the air-spun singer who can bundle all the cordsof her body in a breath. But I need the languageof arm and bow, callus and vibrato, cloudsof rosin rising. Oh, let me keep it, Lord,even when I rise from the grave,this quavering voice, this scuffed hourglass of wood.
N. T. Wright on Paul and monotheism, Suzanne Guthrie on Advent, Ralph Wood on C. S. Lewis.
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