We are wisdom and healing, roasted meat and the star Canopus. We are ground and the spilled wine sinking in.
When illness comes, we cure it. For sadness, we prescribe a friend. For death, a friend.
Run to meet us on the road. We stay modest, and we bless.
We look like this, but this is a tree, and we are morning wind in the leaves
that makes the branches move.
Silence turning now into this, now that.