This Morning

The bones of heaven
are the bones of the earth.
There are things that cannot be told,

that can only be breathed.

There are things that cannot be breathed,

that can only be held

in the stillness between

this breath and another.

There are things that cannot

even be held,

that must be let go,

scattered out of the heart,

the stars, the faces of all

the children, the countless

miracles of the sun

in frosted alfalfa this morning.

Look down.
The bones of the earth
are the bones of heaven.

Painting by Andrew Wyeth