That I no longer hope to be a saint
That I no longer think you want me to be
That I accept we are polar opposites
and that you have your place
and I have mine

That I will always try to be a saint
and fail
That you will always scratch your head at me
and grin

That I am made at least in part
of a certain kind of rusted, sharp-edged metal,
even perhaps tin,
and that you are sky,
and tin cannot ever become sky

That out of all your great skyness
you have given me a small earful of yourself,
just enough for me to talk with you

And that that small part – or even all of sky itself –
cannot change tin into sky

But that it may
with dogged pursuit
of admittedly unobtainable saintliness
wear down the jabbing edges
of my harsher parts

and in time allow me to uncover
my finest human light

Reflections on the first part of The Dark Night of the Soul.