Searching for the Sun

I wake with the aching beauty

of the world. The sunlight shines a

sparrow's silhouette through my window ajar,

but it is gone before

the morning's melody is heard.

The fact that every thing is profound

takes nothing from the unique, singular

profundity of every moment, fragment

and splinter of our being.

The path is full of gravel.

I shovel the stones because

I like to hear them clatter.

I don't remember which way

the sun comes up.

I hunt for it in the mornings

then I just sit among the rocks

and pick at the weeds, thirsting

their way up, hoping for rain.

The weeds get their wish,

and I wade back in wet and worn

sighs.

The storm clears and

I'm left

still searching for the sun.