God is the place that always heals over,
how ever often we tear it. We are all so
jagged, forever having to know;
but too great to show his favour or disfavour
He accepts even the purest of our gifts
with the same indifference and stony calm,
standing motionless to face the rift
our each inquiry opens in his realm.
Listen: that low hissing is the stream
where the dead kneel down to drink
at his mute signal.
We pray to keep it near us, as the lamb
might beg the shepherd for its bell,
from its quietest instinct.