I write my poetry on a crust of bread
I found in the bottom of my pouch,
dropping crumbs along the path
for the wrens and sparrows.
I won’t be coming back
this way and no one will follow
into this particular plot of trees.
The woods are deep. I’ll write
as long as the light holds out.
God illumines the path
only one step at a time
and my own torch has been thrown down.
It’s like a crust of bread –
the moon above the horizon.
My mortal existence is a crust of bread.
This poem is dedicated
to the wrens and sparrows.
I wish I had more to give.
O child of God, venture where there is blitheness
in dissolution; unalloyed bliss in obliteration.