Tomorrow comes. Somehow we are prepared.
Trees grow towards the light. Above the formless
deep the Spirit broods. At least we’re spared
anxiety – to think this way. At dawn
the blackbird sings. But often we can barely
see the line of waiting trees, nor sense
the hidden sun. What hope – when life unfairly
shifts? Our frailty is our one defense.
A feather is as light as air, and yet
it lifts a bird. The grip of winter fails
before the bud. A destiny is set.
A fleet of ships approaches in full sail.
The face I cannot see is like the one
beyond the trees, where day has just begun.