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.