the night at the end of the burning world,
the red bones where my flesh still hangs,
the woods beyond the reach of human voices,
the gulfs that engulf and bind,
and the light that blinds.
And thank You also for procession,
for the literal tree on the literal green hill,
for the transparency of upraised arms
and for the world caught in convex water.
I thank You most of all for You
and for Your signs:
for dappled yellow waving against blue,
for the path that spiky lanterns light
and for the for the bower of stars, that, sunk in self
I, forgive me, often fail to see.