Another Waiting Poem

On the day I have most longed to know my children, I read the next poem in the book that is on my bedside table, What the Light Was Like. The very next poem happened to be this one:

Manna by Luci Shaw

They asked, and he brought quails,

And gave them food from heaven.

—Psalm 105:40

I'm not asking for quails for dinner

and if they flew in my window at mealtime,

in a torrent of wind, I would think

panic, not miracle.

Time is so multiple and fluid. I lose a day

flying west, and gain it back returning.

I am ravenous to know where I am today.

And who. And how am I to be fed? And if

the prayer I offered this morning at first light

was known and answered last week

am I in some horizontal pleat of time,

some rock crevice in the mountain's shoulder

with a great hand shielding me from

the tempest of too much knowledge?

You never know what a simple request

will get you. So, no expectation of birds

from heaven. Rather, I will commit myself

to this quotidian wilderness, watching for what

the wind may bring me next—

perhaps a small wafer tasting like honey

that I can pick up with my fingers

and lay on my tongue

to ease, for this day, my hunger to know.

It doesn't take away my longing to know, but helps put it in perspective, infuse it with meaning.