Poets

Gripping the lectern, rocking it, searching the faces for the souls, for signs of heartfelt mindfulness at work, I thought, as I recited words I wrote in tears: instead of tears,

Why art thou cast down, O my soul? Psalm 42 Down from twilight into dark at noon, through darker, down until the black could not be more devoid of star

The waterfall in sunlight is God talking to herself. Her voice poured into the trees asks nothing, to prove nothing,