A miracle in the menial,

neither mortal nor venial,

water waiting to be fetched,

arrows waiting to be fletched:


these two hands can **** or create,

known to love or burning hate.

This body was not made to perish,

but to feel and care and cherish.


In it there’s a timeless wisdom!

Though capable of loth and sickdom,

we must resist passivity’s charms,

and many needless New Age qualms––


in this epoch of cheap distraction,

O, should folk think just a fraction:

“life in bloom beyond a screen,

one of fairest things I’ve seen.”

Perhaps the birds will carry on
singing after I am gone,
or perhaps the world unfolds
only in my lonely mind.

I’m not yet old enough to find
a good answer to this burning question,
for though my fledgling fingers
grasp facile responses,
the same doubt always plays over
in my aching head:
what if I’m looking at things all wrong?

Half awake and ruminating in bed,
cool winter wind carries through the window
that familiar morning melody that reminds me:
stop;
listen to life’s song!