To document spectacular feelings —
a fall in temperature or a churn of my god. Such beauty lies
in the body of a violin. A bud that forgot how to flower.
Curious how one must be there to plant a garden. You
could call it meditating or trying to meet the world.
This morning I brushed the cheek of belief. Reminded
myself that a leaf is a leaf is a violin.
When you notice our footprints: power lines threading
barren trees like the jet stream of a lark.
—
To the young woman playing her crystal
tambourine, the celestial night of her bells ringing
cling, the sound of water simply as it stands.
I praise the smallness of a midwestern tendency.