The old man in his cottage by the cedar forest stirs honey in his tea. He is stirring the earth around the sun. The single mother is up at 3 a.m. rocking her sick baby. She is rocking the planet very gently on its axis. That moth you met on the mountain last summer, settling blue wings on a lupine: it fanned the air just enough to bring snow this Winter, a promise of thistle blossoms in Spring. Now it is morning, time you bowed down to this ancient breath. The world is not saved by much doing.
Water color, Andrew Wyeth
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