There will be times of standing, bombed out,
looking up into the sky.
There will be long stretches,
awkward silences,
dreary periods with nothing in particular,
no action, no revelations, no filler.
Not the depth of dark nights,
just shallow, grey afternoons.
One foot in front of the other.

There will be ruins.
Someone you need
gone, gone deeper.

There will be absence,
the real, weightless burden of emptiness.

The desolate stretches in the desert
are also the road.
The pauses in the music,
the work of God.
The vast spaces between atoms,
part of the whole.
The negative space of the Holy One.
The hard labor of hope.
The angels of solitude
impose their disappointing mercy.
Making spaces.
The Absent One goes unseen
through your wastelands
toward something else.

Grasses at your feet stir, silent
in the spring wind.

                                —May 28, 2014


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