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
The storm clears and
still searching for the sun.