Sometimes my feral faith
goes creeping through the shadows,
among the vines and brambles
shunning house and town,
scrupulously avoiding you.
I practice absence like a monk,
a yeti of the spirit.
Proud of my independence,
my furtive invisibility to you.
But You are the wilderness, aren’t you?
You are my hunger,
you are my silence,
you are my absence,
you are the padding of my feet on the forest floor,
aren’t you?
—November 8, 2018