I'd rather walk on ice
than water, and one night
I do. I sleepwalk over dead
earth, broken bark and branches,
and wake barefoot on a cold
mountain pond. I am praying.

I do not believe in God.

The moon is half
empty and the air is loud,
hard, exactly as it should be
after an ice storm. I do believe
in this: the quiet answers
my feet give as I walk back,
numb now to the sharp earth,

aware only of what this body needs.