How Terrible The Need For God.

The Light Comes Brighter From The East; The Cawof Restive Crows Is Sharper On The Ear.

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.

When I Go Mad, I Call My Friends By Phone: I Am Afraid They Might Think They're Alone.

I Wake To Sleep, And Take My Waking Slow. I Feel My Fate In What I Cannot Fear. I Learn By Going Where I Have To Go.

I Wish I Could Find An Event That Meant As Much As Simple Seeing.