There is no place you
are not seen.
It is not God
but the stones under your feet,
The tree leaning casual
in shadows,
the wolf motionless
in moonlight,
your own soul
standing silent in darkness
next to your unconscious self
that see you,
all of you.
In spite of your
thinking
yourself safely invisible,
these beings,
their lives,
pull,
tug,
at your tethers,
and call you back
to suckle
in leaf-dappled shadow,
at the ancient breast
that suckled humans
long before Jesus
saw light of day,
or palmed iron,
or Buddha sat,
or ate mushrooms,
or man walked
on the moon.
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