Until further notice, I will celebrate everything:
the vulture, ruler of ether
the tiny vole a dream in its crop
the hummingbird at its flower
stitching the garden with mercerized nectar
the lowly cabbage moth
tatting the Bok Choy’s vestments
saving a bit of root for my soup
the goats in their voracity
mowing the field one mouthful at a time
the scat of the coyote—
Morse code across the trail—
the bent and imperfect
slow and misguided
the sick and the dying
the unsung poet
ash on her brow
the force that pulls me underground
on vine-swathed ankles
and pushes me up as the first pale daffodils of spring.

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