Just because you saw the light on the birch trees
in the wintry woods, and wondered why — as the cold
caressed your cheek, and said, I am the one who is,
who really is — just for this, you will not be answered
nor receive a prize for asking a unique question.
What you have been given is your only gift.
Many have caught sight of the Eternal, before
it hid behind a cloud. Still, the afternoon continued.
There was nowhere to go, and the Eternal
is neither bread nor roof nor name, is the same,
whether you run from it, or fall upon your knees to pray.
It is the moon, mocking children who chase it through the trees.
Ascend through the dark woods on the darkening earth.
Whichever way you turn will be a road. Night is falling,
and the voices cry. Night is falling, and the lamps come out
blazing on the empty street. Go from the witnesses
that do not speak, on to the circles of the light
where the wind drops, and things, things blind your sight.