Even as you appeared to Moses, because 
I need you, you appear to me, not 
often, however. I live essentially
in darkness. You are perhaps training me to be 
responsive to the slightest brightening. Or, like the poets,
are you stimulated by despair, does grief 
move you to reveal your nature? This afternoon, 
in the physical world to which you commonly 
contribute your silence, I climbed 
the small hill above the wild blueberries, metaphysically 
descending, as on all my walks: did I go deep enough 
for you to pity me, as you have sometimes pitied 
others who suffer, favoring those
with theological gifts? As you anticipated, 
I did not look up. So you came down to me: 
at my feet, not the wax 
leaves of the wild blueberry but your fiery self, a whole 
pasture of fire, and beyond, the red sun neither falling nor rising—
I was not a child; I could take advantage of illusions.