Psalm for My Sickness As absent friends along the verges roam where thought’s exhausted soil rests, renews, prepares itself to waken teeming loam when lost acquaintance is made anew; as poets walk the hedgerows unaware of purpose, meaning, creed or anything except their company, both common, rare: ruby-throated hummingbirds and all things that seeming small, absurd, of little worth still wear the print of a Creator’s thumb; so let me wander aimless—mute as earth worms thoughtless burrow deep, as dumb as sun flowers tracking day across a summer sky— through cloudless noons in fields that fallow lie.