Once, in the half-light of a restless dawn,
feelings rose like wolves at the edge of the clearing,
and appetites circled like crows above a field.

From one corner of the sky, a star flickered—
a memory of what was lost.
From another, a fire blazed—
a flash of what might yet be gained.
Both called out, both beckoned,
but their light was unruly.
I laid my hand upon the sparks,
for the flame must be tamed,
or it would consume the harvest.

I was neither awake nor asleep,
but caught in the in-between,
where ache bends the body like a reed in the river.
Yet the hunger remained,
and of the bread before me—
my share, my cake—
I must partake, and partake rightly.

So I sat at the hidden table,
where no beasts may follow
and no voices intrude.
There, in the obliging company of the One,
and only the One,
the wolves quieted, the crows vanished,
and the feast became light.

Better to dine in patience with the One,
than to feast in haste with the many.