We pray to you
beyond our lives,
outside the glass globe of our small knowing.
What trace of you is there? Droplets like tears
condensing on frail glass
mist our sight,
blur our vision.
There is a moment
when clouds part at dawn;
the bloodied sun pierces the night sky
with swathes of blinding light.
There is a moment
high on a windy tor,
where one last tree clings,
resolute, to bare rock.
There is always a moment
when eyes open wider than truth:
glass is liquid sand through the furnace. Beyond our sight, we search for you
through the ages, waiting patiently,
trustingly; repeating your words:
Ani Adonai. Once we were shepherds.
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