Ideals
Dear God, please accept
my prayer--the first,
last, only, because words
are running out, useless,
dying,
and I have no more strength
but to kneel, offering
in trembling hands
my weary heart,
numbly quaking with screaming
echoes of lost ideals
that still want power
despite proof
they have none.
I offer, waiting with open
hands, for your fiery
angels or green-blue
hurricane breath or cloud-
veiled hand to pick
me open, excavate
the shriveled ruin,
tell me what is vanity,
what is hope,
what is real.
And if there is anything
salvageable and true,
if I’m capable of more
than ideals,
more than talk--
help me.
Help me dig, discover, affirm,
lodge dirt underneath
chipping fingernails,
and dredge out all the padding
to find the source of my long-
forgotten strength, to let
it run through me,
to stand, finally,
and let your work
be done through me.
(c) 2001 Ann Lesley Hamvas
