and makes its own space,
an inner space so great
that it meets ourselves in its own radiance;
so full that if we name it –
blade of grass, thunderstorm, darkness, angel –
it sighs to be named, lowers its eyes in sadness,
silent with a certain regret
at being parted from the name it shares
and even when we say that name –
say it quietly, listening as we breathe,
call it some name like God, or poet –
even then it sighs a little
like a child knowing its first fear
yet shining with forgiveness
like a tree, like an angel, like a feather.