Articles/Essays – Volume 54, No. 1
Praying on Gravel
Note: The Dialogue Foundation provides the web format of this article as a courtesy. Please note that there may be unintentional differences from the printed version. Also, as of now, footnotes are not available for the online version. For citational and biographical purposes, please use the printed version or the PDFs provided below the web copy and on JSTOR.
Not yet March, already weeds
bring me to my knees
with trowel and bare fingers.
Under the loblolly
the hellebore are in bloom,
a periwinkle or two. The weeds
are in the white gravel
of the walk. My son has written—
another unexpected death.
On all fours I work down the path,
uprooting weeds, smoothing
gravel. I’ll write my son
a letter back—it’s how we talk
best, considered word for
considered word.
Perhaps I will thank
the weeds for bringing me down
where I’ve the time to seek
wisdom in the river gravel.
What words are good enough? My son
thought of the Vulgate’s non
timebo malum, I will fear no evil.
I do not fear the weeds.
But I fear this prayer a little.