Belief

I see him in the winter garden, when the days are cold and damp.

On windless afternoons, when the sun is low in a pale sky and the bare branches overhead shelter squirrels deep in their nests.

On silent days, when the birdbaths go unvisited, and the sight of a small red cardinal in the azaleas lifts the spirit.

He stands most often near the evergreens, his face a smoky tone.  His hair is thin, combed back from his forehead.  His shirt and trousers are wrinkled, a nondescript blue or gray.  Although he never wears a coat, he never seems cold as he stands quietly, his hands in his pockets.

I see him at the periphery of my vision.  When I turn my face to the shrubbery for a clear look, he hides his face and moves away.   

There are many who would say that he is not really standing there, that he is a figment of my delusionation.

And I would not argue the point, although I know that he stands there. Often.

Waiting to be perceived, to be sensed, yet not wanting to be recognized,

Suggesting that in seeing, knowing and believing, there are many circumstances that resist explanation.  If only we could acknowledge them, even to ourselves.