Let me pitch my tent by a lamppost in the snow
somewhere in a dream of witches and wardrobes
and wonders that taste of delight and courage.

Let me roll out a heavy tarp under a mysterious new moon
resting alongside the wise wind and the patient oak tree,
until curiosity and joy become friends with the long night.

You have made us like the grass that fades quickly,
like rivers that can never turn back, but oh! my God
why then do I long for rootedness and belonging?

Let me set a stake firmly in a past dream, or thrust it forward
to clutch a steady plot of hope, or lodge it here in the moment —
just let me make and keep a tent, O God, to steady my soul.

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