Perhaps the last thing the world needs is another poem about prayer. The masters have tackled the subject, from Christina Rossetti to George Herbert to Milton. And yet the subject is never exhausted. Why? Because prayer has special significance and meaning to each of us. We continually find new means of prayer, new ways of reaching out and touching God. Hopefully, we will never lose our fascination with prayer.

Prayer:
need and praise
forced out like air from a drowning man.
Comfort and itch,
solace and sword
(Lord, smite my enemies
because they are mine!).
Swift warbled chorus,
threads in a tapestry;
poorly baked pudding
imploding under the weight
of unworthy eggs.
Tower and sinkhole, both.
Sincere as the wail of an infant,
prayer ascends. Where does it go?
There are two possibilities, equally ridiculous:
That we are shouting at the sky, dumb with clouds,
placid to our panic
or
that God hears it all.
We are answered enough to know
it is the latter.

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