God, be kind to crooked things
To wrenched old trees, misshapen and awry . . .
Let small birds nestle in their leaves, let rain
And sunlight, and blue mercies of the sky
Fall, in tender recompense for pain
Upon them softly. Let their gnarled boughs know
The bliss of blossoms sheltered in their shade . . .
And bless all tortured, lonely roads that go
Upon lost journeys, aimless and afraid;
Let shy flowers follow all their grieving maze
Of wandering . . . And bless, oh more than these,
And draws dark comfort from crooked trees.
Dear God, be very kind to crooker things.
–written in 1944?