I look to you, with my sweaty palms,
                                   back,
                             armpits,
      and of course,
lips.
I look to you with my ungainly feet,
                          bowing,
                    blistered,
      and most of all,
cold.
I speak to you with my uncertain voice,
                        shaky,
               stuttering,
            and hardly,
hopeful.
You with your subtle perfections,
                of voice,
     of spirit,
      and probably,
of heart.
And I think:
Thank God for my grammar.