A clear, quiet dawn. Forty-nine degrees. Barefoot on the dew-soaked grass.
If a church is a sacred place, so is a hospital, so is a barn, so is a kitchen or playground.
Everything is sacred or nothing is, yet most people think they can pick and choose. They think they know. They think they can perceive a difference. They see as divided a world that is whole.
Tiny peppers. Tiny tomatoes. Tiny cucumbers. The new mint bed is thriving. Most of the cuttings were started without roots.
In the time it takes to write this sentence, how many thousands of cells in my body will die, and how many will be born? How many of us? How many worlds? How many stars?
June 16, 2021
The Flowering Dark
Cells in the body. Cells in the earth. In the sky. In the galaxy. In the universe. In the grand mirror known as the eye. In the unknowable and in the unknown. Coming, going, being born, glowing, fading, passing on, giving their lives to other cells, all of it poetry, all of it song, each depending on the other, informing the other, working, corresponding, checking, reminding, teaching, vibrating, dancing, rejoicing in an infinite number of moons, loving gravity, flight, and weightlessness wherever they are found, casting mind-shadows, being crushed and ground like seeds, creating light, keeping stars together until their time has come — and in the flowering dark I sing, “I too, am a cell.”
[ 1137 ]