The Lost Gospel
At dawn you give your upper garment
to the wretch shivering by the roadside.
At noon you are knocking on doors;
some open, some slam.
The day smiles on you;
you give thanks for its warmth.
Fever departs from the bedridden one
flowing into the sun
descending its bright ladder into darkness.
You have no food;
but look, a little windfall apple
has rolled into the ditch, offering itself.
You give thanks and eat.
The cold hands of night reach for you
across the desert
and together you whisper to the stars.
All the immensity of darkness draws close
around you, covering you like the garment
you gave away in the dawn.
You are like a child whose father
bends down to confort him into sleep.
Tomorrow you will walk to a hill
with others following, eager to hear something new.
And the words of blessedness will be blown
on the breath of that simple day,
around and around the world forever and ever.