The minute fragment spume cannot tell
if it lies on placid seas, or then
if it rides the side of a mounting wave;
all its wide world— water end to end.
So the spider mite that makes its stake
along the ruts of the redwood’s cavernous skin
cannot tell if the tree lies on its side
or stands sentry beneath the moon again.
So it is I cannot tell if You—
You Who shouted out the star-flung night—
have come around to bend down, if this wind
is Your healing robe hem brushing by;
just as I cannot now feel the turning
of the earth beneath my feet, nor sight,
though standing on these coastal cliffs, to trace
the curve of the horizon with my eye.
Photograph PhilGDS CCO Public Domain from Pixabay.com