Praise the wet snow
Praise the shadow
My neighor’s chimney casts on the tile roof
Even this gray October day that should, they say,
Have been golden.
The invisible sun burning beyond
The white cold sky, giving us
Light and the chimney’s shadow.
God or the gods, the unknown,
That which imagined us, which stays
Our murderous hand,
And gives us
In the shadow of death,
Our daily life,
And the dream still
Of goodwill, of peace on earth.
Flow and change, night and
The pulse of day.