July 09, 2026

Isn't it magic

how the droplets of dew rest

so comfortably

upon the bough of that southern crabgrass?

Isn't it God

who sends that sweet chill at nightfall

so that the Earth may be baptized

by the dawn?

Isn't it that rooster,

that sparrow,

that lark,

that dove in mourning

which brings our ears up

from the dead of sleep?

Isn't it that rich dirt,

alive and teeming,

which nestles below,

the veins of everything?

Isn't it wonderous,

the wild world?

All its parts

and voices;

All it's magic

and all it's marvels?