Cat's-Cradles

Rack me, God, and from my lips draw strings;
fine, fourteen-ply, and stranded with my breath.
Weave a cat's-cradle with my reluctant fingers
capturing fragments of truth like fish in nets.
These are not gifts to be asked for, these are tests:
scarlet sunlit clouds that burn and sting,
loving touches that tender what remains unsaid,
cold cries of the wild geese northbound winging.
Bind me at last on my Procrustean bed.
Cut short a foot, stretch unwilling limbs
to perfect measure; Lord, I sweat
under the yoke, struggle for discipline.
Give over, now. God is blessed
and so praise Him.

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