This morning, a raindrop
contains the sky.
How many stars have perished
here, on the tip of a fern?
This morning, the pains in my body
become warm healing promises.
The sun does not have to rise this morning.
It has already risen in my chest.
An aching turns the earth, gently nudging
the seeds, "Wake up, little children!"
This is my work, the twinge of Winter
that comes from my bones.
Tulip and crocus bulbs drink me in sleep.
Hyacinths learn my fragrance in their trance.
I alarm them with a throb.
They stir, hunker, snooze.
A little more light seeps in
through the crack between seasons.
It is the yearning in my own skin
that reminds them, "This is only
a dream, but a world of
musk and color awaits you
just over the shell, one breath away."
Mist vanishes.
"If" dissolves in "Just So."
"That" becomes "She,"
shadowy wetness of languid valleys,
a mistress for daylight.
Jesus, the poet of death,
walks barefoot this morning,
singing to the unborn flowers
without ever asking for his name back.
What is the most ancient meditation?
Stones feeling their moss.
Artwork, Andrew Wyeth
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