I come from people

who believed God speaks

in dreams and visions,

who went to a land

God showed them

 

and died there

or left . . . We left.

I left.

(And, yes, there is more

to that story.)

 

What do you do

When you leave your Promise Land?

Is God’s glory dispersed, like a lake turned to fog?

Can you taste it in your tea?

Feel it in the curve of cup against your thumb?

Might God call to you,

curiously,

through the sliding doors of the corner store–

your burning bush by the baskets?

Your burning bush in the sparrows bathing?

Your burning bush in your neighbor’s humor

or the freshly climbing sun?

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