Why do some days
Ache with doubt,
With the dark wondering
About loneliness and aloneness.
Maybe it is just snow around spring flowers,
Or the rippled bellies of clouds—
Seeing such things by myself and knowing
There is only so much we can share
Such a small step, it would seem,
To affirm that my seeing
Is the very act of everything,
And even when I shrug into a winter coat in April,
Warmth is creeping into the roots of the maple trees,
Teasing them into sweet and rising juiciness,
And Trout Lilies are brave enough to break ground
On stems fragile and thin.
Let it be so for me, God.
Let it be so for me.