As through a long-abandoned half-standing house
only someone lost could find,
which, with its paneless windows and sagging crossbeams,
its hundred crevices in which a hundred creatures hoard and nest,
seems both ghost of the life that happened there
and living spirit of this wasted place,
wind seeks and sings every wound in the wood
that is open enough to receive it,
shatter me God into my thousand sounds.
~Christian Wiman “Small Prayer in a Hard Wind”
though sagging and graying,
be porous enough
to allow life’s gusts
without being pushed over
in a heap.
So the wind
makes me sing
filling my every crack
shattered into pieces,
a mosaic of praises.