WorkWorkAll we do is dig,keep our shovels moving.Move earth, mound it up,carve it with dull bladesof prayer. You don’t need faithto move a mountain;You make it something else,something less real.Something you couldn’t believeunless you laid your hands on it.This was what my father taught methat God meant. That the real testwas the labor of Isaac,how he must have knownthat we build our deathson obedience—we workthough, as the ram works to free itselffrom the thicket. In these ditcheswe dig out foundations,we dig paths for water, we digbasements, places for underpinning,we dig out trench
How silk is madeHow silk is madeWhen in the shock of waking, I am a silkworm. Blinkingback an after-image of a Hokkaido mountain range I've never seen.I imagine the pulsed halo when the substation blew.This is how all transitions are, a burrowing.Even though no one sees it happen, or because of it.A cherry blossom bursts out in the mountains.In a vast, unintended moment it fills the sky.Only in blind worm-acts is silk ever made.We are surprised when the winter holds on like a silence.We are surprised when light bursts forth from the Earth.When, on a slope full of cherry trees, it all collapses.We move into a slow awareness we hope we
Sta.sh
