The vertical tree,
The wooden leaking roof, shelter for horizontal people
And me, above all, in the middle of things,
Not quite ready, but tall.
Faith, I say, is something that is going to happen regardless;
Like the quick passing of this moment,
My voice when I read to you at night,
The slow breathing of the man in times of war.
Faith is not my step but my eye, turned,
My head turned back, cracked open ready to see the world as it is;
A sea of memories which push me towards an open field
With no water supply,
With nothing but hope.