what i'll never know because of the nature of footprints

i learn who i am in retrospect always catching up with myself god i walk so quickly and who knew that corner was going to be there and what then what after what when my foot has already passed the threshold this i lament that it will be too late.

anything might happen

anything might happen at any time

anything

anything might happen at any time

anything ~   anything!

even the moon can be written upon

as familiar as the rock upon me like a chest is and the trees bearing down on me

as familiar, 
this bare page breathing, 
come~

we meet the new day in prayer

this does not mean that we are dumbly happy

this means that we are aware

it is complicated

what faith is this structure?

i tell you this house was built in 1879.  i tell you the man who built this house, a man with dirty blond hair swiped off to the side, a sturdy jaw and freckles still, loved a woman before, much earlier, 1867, and she died.  she died young.  she had long brown hair that twisted on her chest, matted and crude, so far from what it once was as she labored for breath.  what she had was something that deteriorated her flesh, consumed her body.  as she was living she was dying, even then as he sat beside her, spoke with her, held her hand, even then the structure of her was leaving.  

 you tell me how, after this, a man has faith to wake up in the morning, to brush his teeth, his hair, eat a piece of toast.  you tell me how a man has faith after this to pick up a piece of wood, a hammer, a nail, to build a house.   you tell me how he falls in love again.

you tell me how any one of us has faith.

and yet we do.  

we have to, or what are we?