Warmed by the sparrows perched atop the trees,
I go, to make my presence known to thee,
along a path that winds and yet is still,
ready to carry out God's every Will.
I go by fresh-cut lawns of fragrant grass,
passing the wake of negligence and mask,
my present penitence a marvel, too,
if one could but behold it as I do.
If God were a prediction, I would know
just what to say, the luck of a stone's throw
into a bush to strike apparent things,
things I've been told exist, but haven't seen
with mine own eyes to tell me what is true.
What is there? How can I know, yet refuse
such things as might be necessary if
there is indeed no thing hidden within?
But God is predilection and a hunch,
the only sacred thing I've ever known
to guide me thence, from stationary rut,
to lofty heights of excellence and prose.