"Your work is grace, my work is opening. Your work is light, my work is receiving. Your work is to pour, my work is overflowing. Under the milk of your beams, the gold invisible awakening, the furious nectar of desire from pale broken seeds, this empty cup, a wild rose among thorns. I am the garden, you are the Spring. My achievement is your presence." Thus ends the song I heard among the roots and twigs this morning. We learn by listening to creatures who sing when they burst open.