Yet Do I Marvel

Yet Do I Marvel

By Countee Cullen

I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind,
And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
The little buried mole continues blind,
Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
To struggle up a never-ending stair.
Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
To catechism by a mind too strewn
With petty cares to slightly understand
What awful brain compels His awful hand.
Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
To make a poet black, and bid him sing!
While I may not marvel at all the same things as Countee Cullen, I do understand his awe of things that seem inscrutable. This blog is my attempt to absolve myself of a “mind too strewn with petty cares” in order to seek out understanding of the curious things. Perhaps I won’t find answers. But I will marvel, and I will seek. Join me?