These may be the truest of life,
to eat marionberries or Cox’s Orange Pippins
on a day that glimmers with laughter spilled
and simple promises made and kept
or to sit cross legged under pine and cedar,
attend to doings of blue jay and hawk, and
sniff wind’s foretelling of rain and smoke.
Or to gather up wiggling twin beings,
my arms stretched to bundle affection or need,
my heart breaking and mending with
a certain sort of love’s lightning strikes.
This, that, these–they command an entire universe.
They all know and sow certain secrets.
Even the babies’ eyes, how they find
the might of smallest, momentary things,
and deep-see even me, and oh how we
welcome each other, no reservations.
All instructs me to care more, more:
to savor abundance of apple and berry;
to draw close to the fire of forest gifts;
to hear winged things telegraph wisdom;
to find more when there may seem less,
to discover wee hands tender and sure,
fragrant with newness, nestled in mine.