God of near misses and uncanny timing, To whom shall I praise your turns of happenstance? Fortuitous mistakes, a cut in the gap, intervening On a wider front of wind,
And I haven’t seen the most of it yet. If I circumvent the technicalities I lost, Would I find your footsteps there? Barefooted whispers, golden-disked and laughing
Undressing the cause of future cost And teasing it astray; What more could there be to say, oh God of quiet love, maker of ways?

















