Thank you water. I love you. Rain.
Thank you dirt. I love you. Molder down.
Thank you sun, at dawn or evening.
Clothe me in your beams.
Thank you, death. You feed the loam
with bodies large and small.
I return to you.
O stars, I'm not sure what you do,
but without you would I be?
I love you, held or falling.
Thank you, masked workers
in orchards or trucks at 5 a.m.
I love you,
bruising your hands with fruit.
Thank you wind.
I receive you like a moaning pine.
You lift me like a thistle.
In my foolishness I see no difference
between my body and an alder leaf.
Autumn comes, hollowing
a place for the soul in things.
My soul is parched with praising.
I would sing like a wren,
disturbing the great silence.
Photo: Monk's Garden, County Kerry
No comments:
Post a Comment