Well, the wind has done its work.
I stood incredulous at the gaping
wounds in the fortress and the
fence, irked with penetrating
questions that had no answers like
how does a wood shard fly straight through
a wall? Why would one fence panel
just fall over whole and another
explode into five hundred fragments?
Why, that night, did a dark figure
appear in my dream, seem crestfallen, then
turn and walk away into the wild?
There is a natural explanation for all
these things I said, yet vexed, thinking
for a moment to split myself into the old
duality. Knowing a better God now, though
sore in my back from the work the
wind has left for me to do: to exploit my
rage for order in my house and in