The rain that rained last night is past,
though it’s not gone, but hidden here beneath us,
purling, pooling down below our feet,
seeping into every green, patient thing.
The peepers now are singing, each to each.
The beeches, young and old, do not beseech
but simply reach for light. They’re always right.
The morning light lies calmly on the limbs.
It’s in no hurry. It is resting.
The leaves nod calmly and receive.
The brook will never doubt the spring,
but opens up its throat and sings.
I would stay longer here, in heaven’s little taste,
but it’s no waste to take this blessing with me,
and know it in the streets and living rooms and offices,
and learn this trust: that everything is given, all is graced.
The ants are working hard and yet, by mercy
that’s not theirs they find their food; the wren
among the grit and sand and bits of trash we drop
is given seeds, takes wing, and pausing, gladly sings.
_________________
Weather Report
Joy,
borne on winds beyond our control,
falling like rain
throughout the night
before we were aware.
Chance of flooded hearts.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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