The Answer

  

This must be the answer.
The milky way is your breath.
You are made of starlight
from so far away it 
only now arrives in your body.
Barefoot, wriggling 
your toes in wet moss 
at midnight, you unname
the creatures.
Your chest encircles the glistening
darkness.
Having been veiled, you 
unveil, and having 
dreamt, you undream 
the past and future.
Thoughts vanish in a wild
holy silence. 
This is your bewildering 
religion.
Opening your palms
to receive the sky, you hold 
all the invisible worlds 
so weightlessly, delightfully
uncertain and possible.
At last you have something 
to give.

Photo: Wally Pacholka