I don’t trust you. To the shepherd, herding his flock

through the gorge below, it must appear as if I walk

on the sky. I feel like that too: so little between me

and The Fall. But this is how faith works its craft.

One foot set in front of the other, while the wind

rattles the cage of the living, and the rocks down there

cheer every wobble, and your threads keep

this braided business almost intact saying: Don’t worry.

I’ve been here a long time. You’ll make it across.