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.