We must die to the old self and rise to the new.
But the new self isn’t just the old self revised.
It’s not a hero and it’s not a saint.
Angel! Angel! I hear a woman crying, deep in the woods
one morning. She is calling for her dog,
a squat, white cattle dog, pot-bellied, bowlegged—
I’ve seen it, I tell her, trotting along the trail.
One ear flat. Tongue dragging. Just as happy as could be.
a poem from Light When It Comes