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The wilderness is the nightmare
you wake to;
you check the cupboards,
go to the window and
and return to your conscience.
The nightmare is the man you were,
weeping at the goodness betrothed.
But the wilderness tolls at any hour
as the riders of judgment pass.

You move from the window
with a stone face.
The sun rises
between the portals of
what might have been,
what might have been forgiven
with one more
act of love.

And the shy animals come to the gate
and stand at the garden and the stream,
innocent of the hand that feeds them.

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