You were almost there:
in a place without fear
before your slippery now
snapped back into
yesterdays and tomorrows
and all that ferocious bliss
dashed away
like a glimpse of a fox
clothed in autumn—
you're sure you saw it
before it plunged into a
drizzle of darkness
between the trees,

or like a love song
God wrote
and then you forgot
because it was a love
too pure to drink,
too lavish to be believed,
too fierce to be endured,

while following our
farcical scripts so far
from the temple of
everything
that truly matters . . .

But see how the field
of Queen Anne's lace breathes
in foaming rapture,
and without questions—
just living well
for a moment
while annihilating
us like fire—
so much power in softness!

And what, I think, it is
saying is:
just find
the weightless space
where faith is at least
not impossible
and meet yourself there,

knowing you are not a vagrant
in this blizzard of stones,

and although you are here,
you are there,
always travelling,
yet always home.

Patricia Joan Jones