Bewilderment

Peeking around the corner down the hall,
you see the fog building
beyond the glass.

Thank God
             you left the window open!

Even the air wants to slake
your thirst, to keep the clay of you moist.
You have to help.

Sitting still is how clay finds itself
as one thing— a jug, a sculpture—
and nothing else;

a mere surface,
most of its self trapped
in the middle-dark— useless.

Open the window more.
Walk barefoot and naked out the door
into the cloud-hidden.

You don’t need answers,
             you need wonder.
Bewilderment is the instinct of the spirit.
Be wilder still.

All the world is waiting
to shatter— mountain to sand, star to cinder,
bright bodies back to ash,

but the fog outside is thickening,
and the questions are waiting
for you.