A poem of faith
He stood on a whisper, an eggshell,
a breath fogged from winter’s chill,
balanced on the point of a needle.
The roads were the grooves inside
some giant thumbprint, where every
snowflake that fell had a destiny,
and every accident held a purpose.
The seconds counted as miracles,
as digital dollars adding up and up
while he stood at the gas pump,
listening for the heartbeat from the stars,
and hearing only the highway.