The Gospel of Winter

Do not be afraid.

It’s just God,

fanning the dark train of his blue gown

over the forest floor,

taking his seat,

sifting for his mark in that secret book on his lap,

from where

he’ll read to us, and

to the animals that stayed behind,

blinking inside tree hollows, or

yielding their bodies

under rotting leaves,

under rocks,

underground,

each

unwavering in the conviction

of their own life.

All the long, brutal night

he reads,

pouring his singular soul

over the trees, bending,

each to each,

spreading his word over great distances

like disciples,  

projecting

this forgotten absence,

this weighted breath,

this ancient tongue,

this beginning