How does one gain the confidence
Of a finch that flies headlong
Into an arborvitae?
A mass of tangled greens that might,
(Or not) hold a nest, eggs, mate, home,
Or at least defray the rain a moment.
Is it instinct that creates faith?
Or memory of the warm twirl of grass
And feathers that gives courage to return?
Whatever credence I enjoy
Passes through me, a current
From fixed point to fixed point.
The heart is no dynamo,
And unworthy of trust.
Belief is a signpost
Pointing only to itself,
A shadow of a shadow
From which no flutter bursts forth.
Image: Snow at Sunset Rock, Lookout Mountain, Tenn., December 2017.