Faith

When I cannot believe, The brown herds still move across green fields Into the tufty hills, and I was born Higher, where I could watch them as a bird might. When even memory seems imagined, what Can I bring to prayer? A pair of knees. The great faith that built a stair to heaven As now my memory tries to climb a hill, Becomes an old stone building, a deaf priest Whose hand is in the pockets of his parish, Who longs to buy a bell he'll never hear. The water in the font is cold, I trace A circle on my brow and not a cross.