A Vessel Made to Hold Nothing

            A vessel made to hold nothing
must be made of nothing, neither gauze nor gossamer,

            not silk cloth, not sheer crystal, not silver foil or gold leaf,
nor steel, nor water.

            It must weigh less than your hair, or the wind or the stain
on your past. The silt at the bottom of your coffee cup.

            The sum of its attributes must fit inside an eyelash,
with room left over for the glaze in the eye of a politician.

            It must embrace the nebulous and the ineffable,
the inexplicable, and the inexcusable.

            It must contain not only God, but your love of God,
and your doubt, and your disputation.

            Nevertheless, you must be prepared,
for it is certain to shatter.

            The shards may land at your feet, you will not know;
they may be invisible. You must be prepared

            to raise them tenderly, as if they contain the very nothing
you will need, to finish what you have to.