The call need not be large. No voice in thunder.

It’s not so much what’s spoken as what’s heard—

and recognized, of course. The gift is listening

and hearing what is only meant for you.

Life has its mysteries, annunciations,

and some must wear a crown of thorns. I found

my Via Dolorosa in your love.

And sometimes we proceed by prophecy,

or not at all—even if only to know

what destiny requires us to renounce.

O Lord of indirection and ellipses,

ignore our prayers. Deliver us from distraction.

Slow our heartbeat to a cricket’s call.

In the green torpor of the afternoon,

bless us with ennui and quietude.

And grant us only what we fear, so that

Underneath the murmur of the wasp

we hear the dry grass bending in the wind

and the spider’s silken whisper from its web.

THE ROAD

He sometimes felt that he had missed his life

By being far too busy looking for it.

Searching the distance, he often turned to find

That he had passed some milestone unaware,

And someone else was walking next to him,

First friends, then lovers, now children and a wife.

They were good company—generous, kind,

But equally bewildered to be there.

He noticed then that no one chose the way—

All seemed to drift by some collective will.

The path grew easier with each passing day,

Since it was worn and mostly sloped downhill.

The road ahead seemed hazy in the gloom.

Where was it he had meant to go, and with whom?

PRAYER AT WINTER SOLSTICE

Blessed is the road that keeps us homeless.

Blessed is the mountain that blocks our way.

Blessed are hunger and thirst, loneliness and all forms of desire.

Blessed is the labor that exhausts us without end.

Blessed are the night and the darkness that blind us.

Blessed is the cold that teaches us to feel.

Blessed are the cat, the child, the cricket, and the crow.

Blessed is the hawk devouring the hare.

Blessed are the sinner and the saint who redeem each other.

Blessed are the dead, calm in their perfection.

Blessed is the pain that humbles us.

Blessed is the distance that bars our joy.

Blessed is this shortest day that makes us long for light.

Blessed is the love that in losing we discover.

MONSTER

Night-born, malformed, maleficent,

pale as a pulled root,

a monster prowls the woods.

What other explanation is there

for the gutted deer, the naked

footprint by the bedroom window?

Now the neighbor’s dog

has disappeared. The back gate’s broken.

I keep the shotgun loaded.

How often now the birds

suddenly go silent in the trees.

What do they hear?

This thing of darkness I

acknowledge mine. I made it.

I let it escape. Now it returns.

Go on, you ragged underling.

Stalk me with your pitiful strategies.

Starve and shiver in the darkness.

Cry to me from the thorny ravine.