Is it wrong that I sometimes

Sit back and look out my window at the world

And find it incomprehensible?

Me, who glories in meanings and mysteries.

Who sniffs out patterns and possibilities like a

Bloodhound roots through fallen leaves.

Believes.  Catches the scent of hidden things.

Is it wrong that today I am weary of the scent of earth?

Is it a sin that I look through the rain on the glass

And see the chaos there as elementary,

Better than me, more honest than I am even

On my best day?

If only we more rational creatures would

Follow the advice of those prone to instinct.

Roll over.  Paw the sky.  Expose our bellies.

Naked beneath the teeth of our adversary, but

Willing to hope in the gentle hand.