the fall.

tell me a story of a man, his pain and smiles, his tired feet and failed hopes.

tell me about his humanity and I’ll begin to wonder again whether it goes beyond — whether he’s within.

the divine is so close in the touch, in the voice. In the things I know. So well.

A plethora of human life’s landscapes. if I drew a map of it, would it trace it back to him? would I be his hands? His feet?

would I catch the falling leaf, or would I know its home is the earth?