The Birthday Of Seeing

Mid-Winter morning, a befuddled kitten

marvels at the fallen whiteness,

and the footprints that follow her everywhere.

A junco, patiently waiting his turn at the feeder,

poops on the head of St. Francis.
Sunrise in scattered angel wings
flecked on a frozen pond.
A nest inside an egg, a mother's womb

encircling her savior.
This is the birthday of seeing.
Your evergreen eyes must bathe themselves

in their own creation.
Even the moon last night was loomed

out of light from your gaze.
Cherubim thirst for bodies like yours
made of vanished stars, yet casting shadows.
They wonder how leaves feel

skittering down a sidewalk, how,

when you rest in your own peculiar rhythm,

your work is stillness.

Seraphs can't decipher the hidden hieroglyph

of twigs in a fire thorn bush.

But the beak of a chickadee's may swallow

the whole story in a single berry.

Beauty isn't the color of your ribbon,

your wrapping paper, the semiprecious jewel 

on your finger, but the splash of your soul

diving into the ocean of this moment,

the fountain of tears that cleanse

both the seer and the seen.
Let the triumph of last night's snow 

repose in glistening impermanence.
Wherever this melting leads you, friend,

go there.
Just to be awake is Christ.

 

Sumi-e by Ellen Miffit