What Am I

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What Am I

Sonnet

What am I to Thee O Infinite,
A measly flesh with piffling breath
And sliver of mind sans any depth
Yet to me ever Thou doth stoopest.

My soul might know being immortal
But time’s memory is too hollow
And severed by birth to follow
Its root in Thee by the umbilical.

O Womb that houses the world and me,
Are we but Thy dreams or more real,
A shimmering mirage or living crystal
To view in time the visions of Thee.

Whatever be the heart of Thy mystery,
I cherish Thee most as Thou canst see.