a poem by Jorge Luis Borges

Shinto

When sorrow lays us low 
for a second we are saved 
by humble windfalls 
of 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 deities 
travel secretly throughout the earth. 
Those modest gods touch us-- 
touch us and move on.