Standing in the Question

 Standing in the question, I miss my cloud-

soft fur-coat caterpillar childhood. Wet

wings folded prayerfully inside, this shroud

of gray chrysalis confounds me. Small wonder I forget

the different ways God shows up,

mistake the mockingbird’s song for the oriole,

fail to dream of the pollen road in the buttercup,

can’t quite recall old stories cradled in my soul.

Standing in the question, the beautiful mystery

calls to me in crow, shivers down me

like the dark side of the moon. Finally, my fear

eclipsed, out from inside the question, I appear.