When you spoke
of the tone of
the wind or the
timbre of falling
trees, I could
do no more than
sigh a confession,
not blast
nor blaze against
your religion;
though I laughed
when you set
the basket to
catch it, the leak
off the shingle,
but it formed
from a single
torrent to a zen–
sponsored fountain
of faith.
To satisfy my
hunger you baked
a rice cake in
colour then drew
your mouth and
spoke a volume
of prayer to
the silences there
where you knocked
on the sky.
When the steep
slope slanted
toward the horizon,
I joined
the wordless
orison gleaned
from the spheres
and offered
to the cloud
and ions above us.
