I trust the stone to be cool and hard
and the flowing stream to be wet
and the sun to shed light
almost every day.

I trust my untimely friend to be untimely
and my forgetful friend to be forgetful
and my responsive friend to be responsive,
if not now then then,
if not this way then that.

What is trust but prediction?
And prediction rests on wide and deep and careful looking.

But then, AH!, the surprise, the shock, the shattering,
of tornado or lightning or gunshot or love,
which proves I have not looked widely or deeply or carefully enough.

I trust Chaos to whirl me into dance now and then
to twirl me breathless and frightened and and dizzy.
And I trust Order to tap Chaos on the shoulder,
because Order wants to see the wild look in my eyes,
the dazzled and tentative smile on my lips,
and feel the feral beating of my heart.

I am not the same when I sit again.