The Holy Ghost was shaking trees
on the day I went around and
I saw the world in the cool of
the evening and in a shower
of leaves. Time, as we know,
cannot be counted. Love, as we
know, cannot be felt.
What is the earth but a
footstool? What is the world
but our fertile acre, the
hunger for homeliness?
It is strange to me that
I am not falling, for
I feel the world invisible,
a gracious abyss, a divine
nothing. What is the world
but an act of God?
We are the earth, a dream
once said to me, turning
in place, gliding slowly
round again, just about to stop.
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