A Hymn to the Mystery of Waking

Buried workglove
reaching out of the grass . . .

Whatever it is that makes my body
live, the cells
intelligent, whoever
makes this music in the brain,
I thank you

(I bequeath my fat to Gaia:
Just let me keep a single
blues refrain!)

Rusted jawbone of an old
rearview mirror smashed flat . . .

Whoever it is
that lives in the touch of fingers,
whatever sings
that song our hands go on humming
when the circle breaks up,
we thank you

(We surrender all
our licenses and deeds to the earth:
Just let us keep the smell
of one lover's juice!)

Bees at work
inside a clear plastic
sack of garbage in the dumpster . . .

Whatever it is
that fills the trees with first light
and the waking of birds,
whoever spilled
breaking day across the lake,
I'm grateful.

(I offer my own waking
to the power that ravenously eats
the hours, just let me
recall this soaring vastness
between heartbeats—)

I remember now, Spring
always comes again