driving in a vacant mood
on one of those interminable errands
to nowhere in particular,
I stopped the car at a red light,
barely cognizant of the hour or day
or indeed of any purpose greater
than the brute mechanics of motion,
the perfunctory traversal of space,
the ant-like queues and columns
in which we live and move
and have our being
(was it for this that a voice
conducted chaos into order,
darkness into light,
love—the water and the blood of it—
into the fabric of the universe,
foreseeing you and me,
replete in form and function
and every possibility?)
an answer came, if answer it was,
not quite in silence
but in its gentlest rupture:
a roadside slip of grass
undulating in the wind,
whose parting, blade from blade,
led deep within and
intercession made
for all the unregarded things
that daily fling
their glory at our feet.