by Jonah Winter
Emptying the trash, going to sleep at night, just daring to speak in any language to anyone: Our prayers are answered, even if the words we say are just dreamt-of admissions of love to strangers, unsent letters shoved away, forgotten, at dawn, like street lights turned off as the sky begins to gray above the black fields-- all of this is being written down somewhere. See. Even that ladder leaning up against the barn wants to make you feel better. See how easily the dew collects on its white slats, the way the morning hardly breathes? See that man who drinks himself to sleep, how his face is pressed against the kitchen table-- see how the light from his kitchen shines through the window of the old farmhouse? Somebody sees that light.