that for all of creation our salvation lies
in the ritual of getting the paint ready,
of shaping the clay for its time in the fire,
of threading the needle to pierce the rent
and stained fabric. in the beginning was
the word is all fine and good, but in the
suffering, what succor? in the wilderness
a goat thrashes. I could paint a knife. I
could shape a bowl to catch the blood. I
could sing a love song to god. in the world,
everything is fight and grief and getting
rent. in the world everything is time and
love and being found. eyes wide. thrashing.
and so very alive in the wilderness.
I am quite sure something larger than you is moving through these words.