the process

It wakes when I wake, walks 

when I walk, turns back when I

turn back, beating me to the door.

It spoils my food and steals

my sleep, and mocks me, saying, 

"Where is your God now?"

And so, like a widow, I lie down

after supper. If I lie down

or sit up it's all the same:

the days and nights bear me along. 

To strangers I must seem

alive. Spring comes, summer;

cool clear weather; heat, rain...

Now Where? 

-Jane Kenyon