I don’t have a lot to say about the following poem. Sometimes that’s the only fit response when you encounter sheer wisdom. There is nothing say, just a great deal to ponder. William Martin’s counsel isn’t only for parents to children, I believe, but for all of us. For how can we give or ask for that which we haven’t experienced ourselves. And so before we can invite our children to see the extraordinary in the ordinary, we ourselves need to practice that discipline. A meal cooked by a friend. The quiet fidelity of a spouse. A warm fire to banish for a moment the chill of winter. A good book. A shoulder to cry on. A hand to...

Pretty much all I’ve got this morning are questions. Why do I like this poem so much? I don’t know, except perhaps, just now, the darker mysteries seem more transparent, or at least available, than the higher ones. What moves me about these lines? Still don’t know, except that just now I’m not sure I can bear a miracle that needs explaining but would be glad to receive a sign of what’s next, of what I should do, of what is even possible. Why, for that matter, is this a poem, as it feels as much like prose as poetry? Perhaps it’s the line breaks, or the imagery, or the lack of resolution, or the silent invitation. I just don’t...