I wait in wilderness for bush to burn
in vain—or for your voice in thundering tones;
it seems I go for miles without you, yearn

for something I can see instead, or learn,
that’s solid—letters lightning-blazed on stone.
I find you’re right behind me when I turn

from looking for a sign, start to discern
the markers of your presence from my own.
It seems I go for miles without you, yearn

for guidelines clearer than a pointed fern,
and wonder why your path’s not better known,
to find you’re right behind me when I turn.

And even now it seems I haven’t learned
that you are in me, as my very bone.
I think I’ve gone for miles without you, yearn,
then find you’re right behind me when I turn.