To Have Space
Sometimes you have to let
the morning have its way,
set out its wide sunlit spaces
like a tablecloth upon your silence,
speak to you softly in the sound
of leaves, bright with the flush
of spring. There is much to tell,
the stories of its winter dreaming,
waking to a warming sun,
desires erupting in flower
and fruit.
As a child I listened
to the almond trees clack
their naked limbs all winter long
until late august when the first
blossoms broke into the chilly air
with their white whispers
and perfumed breath hushed out
of pink throats. It was my eucharist,
trees donning their green vestments
plump with promises.
I must make space in myself
to receive the sacraments of creation,
have a reverence for what comes
forth to speak a name
in all that is born, lives and dies
and reflects a beauty
to which I can be blind to
in the bloat of myself.
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