Wise prophets these old trees, leaves like hands in prayer,
shelter to birds and insects, all chirring in plainsong below.
They call to every bud, every stone, every blind worm turning earth.
Rivers never wonder; day and night stars simply hide and shine.
The winds need no reason for when and where they blow.
They don’t live in doubt or consider the meaning of their being.
Not asking isn’t acquiescence, it isn’t kneeling to a certain fate.
Acceptance can be grace-full; forgiveness in all blood’s flow.
Some peace is in this sureness, the dignity of given identity.
It isn’t reading tea leaves or old bones tossed on the ground.
Tarot, crystals or palms can’t tell you more than you already know.
Truth is there in the not there, in the deep tenebrous space between.