Fear tries to keep you small,
presses you under its wide thumb
so you never want to leave the house,
make the phone call, pray for help.
But sometimes you pry yourself loose,
slip out into the winter night
and pass through a shimmering black tunnel—
no moon, no stars, no flashlight—
where anything might happen, and does.
You fall to your knees and listen
to the scuffing noise of leftover leaves
on the beech trees, calling with each rustle:
Be more like us. Dwell naked
in the night without running away.
Hear what secret languages you learn
by staying. See what sweeping thoughts
perch in each of your available branches.