I speak now
to the God of wet moss on rocks
to the Lord of speckled lichens
and fungal blooms
Shy One, teach me Your name
my ancestors did not appoint one for You
because You were quiet
omnipresent
easy to forget
in these days, here
we have finally come to sense Your presence
because You are on the run
Your arrivals
and absences
have tuned us
to Your holy ways
Oh Great Teacher
You are the first to leave
when the air becomes choked
with the poison of wicked men
and the antipathy of all other lungs
to scarred to care
and You, Wise One
are the first to return
after disaster
and death
after destruction has stolen
all hope
from hearts trembling in exile
the first to leave at the scent of corruption
and the first to arrive at the scene of despair
I can think of no greater God
to worship in these
here days
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