Sonnet No. 18

[July 16^th, 2013 – 10:53 am]

Fear is a blind thing – hands before the face –

Black velvet rippling through a starless night;

Which way up; which way to a state of grace –

How dependent we grow upon our sight.

Yet sometimes I think worry is a gift,

Given to sharpen joy to a focus,

So that even from the darkness we lift

Ourselves with our weak hands from the abyss.

I know you have fears that I long to calm,

And they call out to me in clarity,

Like David's voice entreating God by psalm,

To end black nights of their austerity.