sunday churchday

There is some solid wholeness that returns
On a ridge in the sun after winter hiking
And after drinking cold water beneath broken ice.
It always takes an least an hour for the
Tumblejumblefantasy thoughts to dissolve
And leave me alone with god.

Sometimes I worry I spend too much time alone,
That my eccentric, misanthropic tendencies will
Swell and no one will like me.
But I trust my shadow on the valley floor,
Surrounded by burned trees and slanted rock.

I trust that halo around the sun
And the silence of my bones
and the earth half hidden under snow.