I am a load of minutes, heavy with wonder at the clarity of just one. Perhaps it comes at noon, on a day just as lunch sounds good and the birds are snoozing from morning's song. Perhaps it moves along the sidewalk, leashed and exuberant, wanting to be unchained; jumping and wild ... a rabid thing gone to joy.
I see how the load is less and the forgotten cast off, as dust performs a miracle and covers the unused things until they don't matter.
Sudden insights insist ... listen to me; softly the appreciation of little things grab hold and give to movement, meaning ... so many times now that the spirit comes from behind the silent silk of time and takes a bow.
I've known the power of listening and now see the wonder of being understood.
What is this willful character of celebration? It is dressed in wildflowers and recalls the grace of wind. It is a blade of grass gone green from spring, and the turbulence of snow-melt racing summer to the sea. It is hills of yellow mustard, curved like breasts in the morning sun.
It is the poem, in me.