I am asking myself a question
when I write those two words.
It has been said that God will not be mocked,
so I am not afraid to ask.
I am in a small room
typing on a black plastic keyboard
having just read the words of a friend about
the desert he is in;
Iraq, war, separation,
Some of us are forced to stand still in the dark and face ourselves.
I lift my trembling hand out over the dark lake.
What do I hope for, oh Soul, in all of this reaching,
say it back to me: