quiet

Evening Prayers

I believe my sin

to be entirely common:

the request for help

masking request for favor

and the plea for pity

thinly veiled complaint.

So little at peace in the spring evening,

I pray for strength, for direction,

but I also ask to survive my illness

(the immediate one) -- never mind

anything in the future.

I make this a special point,

this unconcern for the future,

also the courage I will have acquired by then

to meet my suffering alone

but with heightened fortitude.

Tonight, in my unhappiness,

I wonder what qualities this presumes

in the one who listens.

And as the breeze stirs

the leaves of the little birch tree,

I construct a presence

wholly skeptical and wholly tender,

thus incapable of surprise.

I believe my sin is common, therefore

intended; I can feel

the leaves stir, sometimes

with words, sometimes without,

as though the highest form of pity

could be irony.

Bedtime, they whisper.

Time to begin lying.

-Louise Gluck