Dry bunch grass. Sand.
No path, just wideness, and dirt.
Or narrowness, and shadows.
Rocks, rough, rough rocks.
No way, no way to see
the way.
Valley where death
is solid enough
to have a shadow.
You know me, and
this valley, and where
to find me in it.
Gentle shepherd,
I need your voice. I need
your quiet call. I need
your gentle going:
no drama, no crying out,
just walking,
soft footfall in barren soil.
I will follow.
I don’t see a path, can’t yet
make out the green pasture.
Just follow your feet
on rocky ground.
Just follow your voice.
It is so soft
it’s only here in the barrens
that I hear it.