The world is a whirling place -
Spinning in dizzying, constant motion,
masking with benevolent deceit its gesturing,
attempting to convince with thin perception,
firm feet floating and clear giddy heads.
But it doesn’t always work.
The world cannot help but reveal itself.
It’s the movement, of course.
The coils of a wave,
a dissipation of shadow,
the reeling of stars,
give it away.
Reflection reminds me that 50,000 tides have drawn themselves in and out,
and half as many risings and settings have defined the days of life.
Eight hundred moons have waxed and waned,
and blood flowed through half those to mark the promise of life,
fruit both born and unborn.
Yet, even after all of these,
all the rhythms of this living,
this one heart still fills the world with insistent percussion.
Each day brings its own new-born light,
announcing itself as though the first ever made,
ignoring that millions like it have already gone before
and that I, myself, have witnessed so many of them.
It doesn’t matter, you see.
The turning is relentless.
A million, a thousand, or the first,
they have every one, acknowledged or not,
brought renewed miracle to the world.
Breath, brilliance;
Power, promise;
converge and distill,
unable to deny their source.
They are all the time close,
as a soft breeze stroking with welcome, familiar hands.
This world,
this grace-filled, specific, intentional gift,
opens full-face every new morning,
and all one needs to know it is to raise astonished eyes,
recognizing Joy.
