The Question


Into a thicket where there are

chunks of sun speared

on the thorn, where mosses

rise up in a silent

tide, I went to hide.  Two

squirrels rippled on the

ground, making no sound, nor

granting any sign that I was

there—until I wondered,

was I anywhere?

Up grew the trees without a word

from me, tearing green holes in

infinity, and I—who had come here to escape

the crowd—longed to see someone else,

because God spoke so loud.


High on a cloud-rough summit, it seemed that He

must be debating whether there was me.