I pray best with no roof over my head
Here I am, in one of those such spaces that underlie it all
My glance grazing the balance struck by weather-worn stone
I wonder at how no intelligent being could ever conceive such a meticulous miracle
What has become here was born of relentless, slow scatter — an end, a beginning, and the circles they form
But here it is. Here you are. Here I am.
Maybe that is the god I still reach for
Try as we might, intention is infinitely incapable of such clever creation
Maybe we are trying our lives on inside-out
Perhaps our whole journey hinges here:
Maybe the accidents we dedicate our lives to precluding are actually the entire point?
Maybe we spend our entire energy missing the entire point?
What if the accidents are really the whole of becoming and being?
Perhaps they are just and all and only that:
Evidence that we are both soft enough to shape and strong enough to stay
