I don’t know if syllables of rain
are stressed or unstressed,
if the winds communicate
in regional dialects,
if there are prophecies
in the sign language of oaks.
But I’d rather wonder
than disavow miracles.
I need mysteries to live for,
faith to make me afraid,
a few masquerading angels
to entertain unwittingly,
reminders that I’m more
than carbon and spark.
We could strip mine everything
and remain far less than gods,
having little use for ourselves,
asking only now what?
