In This Gift Trajectory

Wild for the safety of now,

I get a glimpse in the sage night

that if I got it all just right -

brick sidewalks of my childhood,

seeing each thought lovingly

cutting potatoes with full attention

in the chilly dawn -

I am still swaddled in the Endless

stream of things.

Everything ripening in its time,

each sweet or tart apple

drops

into the broad meadow,

full of seeds

full of sacred devotions,

bowing in the nonchalant free fall.

I walk through that field,

wild grasses and sky

slipping gently through my

rough hourglass hands.