The sun comes up and puts its arms around the world,
which leans in and looks up like a child in its mother’s bosom,
and the birds sing about that, all their warbling songs
and their chittering songs and their playground songs.
Clouds in their long white robes
burgeon across the sky, furling and unfurling,
and the white pines nod, and the red oaks nod,
and the beech and the birch leaves flutter,
and the grasses wave and bow and wave.
Dew sings its fuzz of light, and little white moths applaud.
The wild daisies seem to know something, and the goldenrod,
and the white clover knows and the purple vetch knows .
The little brook recites its rosary, clicking the beads.
The morning light rises and rises
as if it is about to ask something,
like the ocean over and over coming to the shore;
and the meadowlarks take up the question the sun is asking,
asking something of the world,
and because you are part of it, breathing,
asking you as well:
if you are willing, here, now,
to go ahead and be part of it,
to be part of the unfolding of this astonishing day,
to be at least this much of the miracle.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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