In the woods at sunrise voices speak,
dark, tunneling beneath roots.
Not uttering vast wisdom,
but saying enough.
Between our bodies some kind of energy,
not electric, but warm, a reaching.
In the day's little catastrophes some light,
soft, awakening, enough to see by.
Crossing the desert of the living room,
the impossible distance from the store,
tired, or angry, or despondent,
desperate for escape, or treaties,
when certainly the gods have left you,
you are fed. The soul's strange nourishment,
the morsel held in the palm of your disaster,
left in plain sight after every dark night.
Through your incoherent landscape runs
this steadfast mystery, the Holy One's vow
that you will make it. A layer of dew,
flakes like frost on the desert floor.