I have lost my way, but have found the small fire
which can never go out, though we are terrified it will.
When I first came, I passed you by. I passed the sap oozing from the maple as I passed the truth seeping from the quiet ones. Now birds out of view cry and I know they speak for spirits long gone from the earth. Now when strangers bump and ask, I hesitate, not holding back, but unsure which way to climb into their lives. I keep searching through the things of the world for one to carve into some form of hope—the kind that pulls us closer to the living. When I first came, I couldn’t make things out. But now, as the eyes dull down out here, it’s less a loss and more a turning inward to the canyons of soul where one glimpse of God sears the ego like a cataract. And we put down our complaints and finally be.