i am a little church(no great cathedral)
far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities
-i do not worry if briefer days grow briefest,
i am not sorry when sun and rain make april

my life is the life of the reaper and the sower;
my prayers are prayers of earth's own clumsily striving
(finding and losing and laughing and crying)children
whose any sadness or joy is my grief or my gladness

around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing

winter by spring,i lift my diminutive spire to
merciful Him Whose only now is forever:
standing erect in the deathless truth of His presence
(welcoming humbly His light and proudly His darkness)

e.e. cummings

I'm not clever or deep enough to luxuriate in poetry. My words are simple tools in a battered box. I found the "i'm not sorry when the sun and rain make april" line on a rubber stamp in a craft shop -- and bought it because I thought it would go well with the photos of all the crazy color springing into my mystery garden.

I looked up the poem online and read it through a couple of times. Initially disgarding any personal relevance at the "far from the splendor and squalor of hurrying cities" - I am all about splendor, squalor and cities.

But the verses sprung whole to my mind as I walked out of the hospital Wednesday night. It was a hard visit. The shades were drawn and it was dark in Mom's room in every way. As each two-hour cycle of pain medication wound down, her body tensed and mouth twisted in silent screams. Even girded in gown and gloves, we're not allowed to touch her. You could speak, but the pain seemed to drown your words and with the medication came still slumber. If feelings had exponential value like numbers, this would be helpless to the ultimate degree.

Outside the too-slow revolving door exit to the parking lot, a small pack of tattooed tweakers took quick drags on cigarettes and spoke all at once in fragments. One was about to become a father, apparently within minutes. The sole female, possibly the sister of the girl in labor and delivery, make a weak case for him to go in and watch the birth of his son. But the guys supported Dad's inalienable right of neglect and agreed to go with him for a ride.

The Mom in me wanted to grab him by the ear, haul his skinny frame through the door and force him to accept a miracle. I knew I could carry him with ease, but I couldn't force anything else. I got in my car feeling sorry for the child with no choice but to enter this seamy chapter.

But people start with less and do more. They start with more and do less. I said a little prayer for the baby, turned on NPR and drove home.

"around me surges a miracle of unceasing
birth and glory and death and resurrection:
over my sleeping self float flaming symbols
of hope,and i wake to a perfect patience of mountains

i am a little church(far from the frantic
world with its rapture and anguish)at peace with nature
-i do not worry if longer nights grow longest;
i am not sorry when silence becomes singing"