I know that there is a miraculous power
hidden in the secret places of grass,
passing silent witness to the way the ground gives
as the noisy trees take root and make leaf
and the shaking sweet perfume within quiet air
seeps from the remarkable grace of a flower.
The sky is alive with motion and song
and the water rejoicing the hours of the sun
catches the bow of withering limb
reflecting it back to itself yet again.
Caught in the invisible web of all time
with strands like a hand print all warped and wrinkled,
the ancient things hang from the walls and the halls
of the children with laughter and games made of sticks.
Falling like stones on the heel of attachment,
belie not the power of a just waking child
to exquisitely find that the petal still falls.
The beautiful water reflects in the faces
of the children of children of old,
for the dying will open the path to the summer
where the birth of contentment opens living again.
So quiet the photograph slaps at the knowledge
that half of the tree is alive in the air
where the birth of contentment breaks out of the sky
and the other reflection lives again in your eye.