Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words, 
but I recognized it. 
I knew I should make myself get up, 
write it down, but it was late, 
and I was exhausted from working 
all day in the garden, moving rocks. 
Now, I remember only the flavor —
not like food, sweet or sharp. 
More like a fine powder, like dust. 
And I wasn’t elated or frightened, 
but simply rapt, aware. 
That’s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window, 
all bright light and black wings, 
and you’re just too tired to open it.

One day in Paris, a religious procession carrying a crucifix passed Voltaire and a friend. Voltaire, who was generally regarded as an infidel, lifted his hat. “What!” the friend exclaimed, “are you reconciled with God?” And Voltaire with fine irony replied, “We salute, but we do not speak.”