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Vo l . 7 N o . 1


Trust I. My Unitarian friends consider the possibility of God in humanist terms, with ethics, good will and long discussion about whether one needs spirituality, the ages old dilemma-might there exist a higher power? I mention how I go to the synagogue on Rosh Hashanah to pray and hear the ram’s horn blow. Let there be less suffering. Let peace descend. Let us make amends. In New Mexico where I live now, one year slides into another, seasonal shift. Leaves begin to yellow, the soil cools. Migrating flocks head further south, wings beating, flight wired into them by a an unseen force. Trust. II. Easier to confide in a poem how I met God once, a woman I barely knew with her graying hair pulled into a bun, her brown dress skimpy, red polish flaking off her fingernails. She had walked straight to where I slumped alone on a park bench miles from home my unhealed griefs drumming like thunder. Never asked, just plopped herself beside me. turned a bit, placed an arm across my shoulder, looked directly into my teary eyes said only two words, I know, and suddenly everything mattered.

William Wikstrom

Cirque, Vol. 7 No. 1  

A Literary Journal for the North Pacific Rim

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