When sorrow lays us lowfor a second we are savedby humble windfallsof the mindfulness or memory:the taste of a fruit, the taste of water,that face given back to us by a dream,the first jasmine of November,the endless yearning of the compass,a book we thought was lost,the throb of a hexameter,the slight key that opens a house to us,the smell of a library, or of sandalwood,the former name of a street,the colors of a map,an unforeseen etymology,the smoothness of a filed fingernail,the date we were looking for,the twelve dark bell-strokes, tolling as we count,a sudden physical pain.
Eight million Shinto deitiestravel secretly throughout the earth.
Those modest gods touch us—touch us and move on.
