Where we are, aspects of God are everywhere. They are not seen,no more than dust upon a chair, its knowledge close upon our hands,a knowledge that will never cross the mind, forgotten grass we walkupon, but if it has the shape of thought, what is the thought that wearticulate, the we we say we are a syntax that unfoldsfrom our sleep and in its waking gazes on itself, a thingof bone and flesh and light that makes an order of the world? We
do not think, but we are thought among its possibilities,visions of the snow that take us by surprise, a snow aboutto flower, breaths of air unsure, a space of snow invisiblebetween the words we speak, a silence big with birth upon our lipsthat says us as it says whatever else might come to mind -- the grass,the dust or chair -- and so we come to be in temporalitiesof us and of whatever we are of, the snow in syllables.
