Our presence is translucent, unable to be seen, but present all the same. A puzzle piece to stand vigil, secured in the corner, but not as glue. We, who stand, must stay quiet and tall, as sacred totem poles do, in the night as wild beasts pass.
There is little said. A transparent form we are, with nothing other than a heart displayed. From here, the wind pushes cold air. Clouds billow overhead laden with rain. A storm rumbles and shrieks, but for us who stand, we stand still. Let the roar come, we will not run, we say.
We know very little, except where to plant our boots, deep in the earth. And we know our offering is small but worthy of passage. Light will come again, when the storm settles, when the rain washes the shadows from the trees, then what is will be known.
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