I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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Today I’ve been watching the shadows move
across the white building that was once a barn
and now is used to store dishes and tables and chairs,
because we have too much of everything, and the window frames
make a fine white line in the black reflection of glass, speckled
with new paint, like ancient stars, and all day the shadows
have drawn themselves on the clapboards and told the old
story of light, how it dances in our eyes and how we praise it,
how it is fleeting: here, then gone, like the river
outside my window, all last night rumbling and thrashing,
fluid beyond imagination, transporting last year’s leaves
and silt from forgotten fields.
And this morning I awoke to rain, which makes
its own rhythm on the window, and the world is full
of these rhythms, rhythm of water, rhythm of the heart,
which sounds like an underwater pump, the lub-dub
of all it knows, which is making all I know possible,
and on the roof rain falls and turns to hail, then snow,
then rain again, running down the shingles to the gutters,
the gathering-up that makes rivers and lakes and oceans,
from cloud to drop to torrent, how nothing is lost.