Praise Song

 

At 4 A.M.

this is my praise song
simply because, 
September.
Or perhaps because 
I thought about Jesus 
as I fell asleep last night.

You are the vine, I am the twig,

yet all your sap flows into me.

Your exhalation plunges

a bud through my heart.

It bursts into a poem.

Clusters of plums

dangle over my fence,

but I did not plant them.

They drop into my palms.

Am I a looter, like the deer,

the coyote who comes at midnight?

Blackberries too,

everywhere, succulent

with thorny sweetness.

Sometimes they wound me

when I pick them.

The grosbeak and racoon

are more skillful.

They pluck the fruit and leave

the thorn without

making up a story about it.

No politics, simply

the scattered abundance

of a nameless sower

whose generosity stains

my fingers, my tongue purple.

Invisible stars also

ripen on your vine.

Who can explain our entanglement?

Gilded Autumn moon,

wormhole in the apple,

darkness at the center of the Milky Way

Mellowing, softening, pouring

the polished edges of everything 

through my body.

The grace of your seasons

pulses in my chest.

Like a mother you care

for each sparrow,

hold honeysuckle in your hand,

lift it to your face, your lips,

giving thanks

for your own fragrance.

You enter whatever you have created.

I am too amazed to have any religion

but This, but This.

All I know is, blame and compassion

cannot be contained

in the same breath.