Why does the rooster crow
Why does the cabbage unfurl
only at her edges?
Where, when dragonfly dies, does her turquoise
and emerald go?
Who will shelter me like my mother and father,
the sure house passing?
Oh, will my questions answered
be a fall from grace, leaving me
a filthy preacher of truth?
Or will I be penetrated with the power
of gratitude learned through trial
that my eyes may see beyond forgiveness
to compassion for the innocent who stole
muntjac’s favorite bed in the woods of wild forbidden?
May I fumble with these questions
only to find grace catching me in the arms
of the brother who prays within refined walls
and the sister who laughs at the dark night, my dear log troll
the silly wise one who calls me dirt witch, a shining ruby
in the dust?
May I find shelter from the barking night in you
not because I am tame or wild
but because your eyes see all the way through me?
Of these questions, at this smitten hour
pray tell about the cabbage first.