I awake to the sound of singing birds;
Little birds, singing their own tiny repertoire
And their singing
Lifts my soul.
It is a small joy
But so accessible
As long as there is spring and morning.
The sun's rays reach the blind and are
Diffused.
They touch me like a golden glow
Which oozes over me
Like warm honey.
An individual bird chatters his business,
Plump and important,
Feathers fluffed,
Oblivious of the Twitter of the rest
Intent on his purpose.
And this is what this chorus is:
No chorus,
No harmony;
Just each bird singing his own tune.
No blending, no merging, no smearing, no trimming
But sharp, clear differences.
A tree stands outside the window.
Its apple green leaves in their new- born state,
Each separate on the branch,
Not yet grown into the overlapping cover they will become.
Between
Each leaf
And the next
And surrounding the whole
Is the china blue sky.
Each colour
Young
And
Clear
And
Complementing the other.
Only today-
Only now
Will those leaves look
So
Against that sky.
Tomorrow a cloud may dull the sky'
The sun may be brighter,
The leaves will have grown,
The branch will stoop a little more.
The beauty is in the transience:
That tree
That sky
That sun
That bird
That song
Now.