Last night, I woke in darkness,
Discovered I had become drops of rain
Falling hard upon the roof.
This is not the first time.
Last year, I opened bottle of vintage wine,
Breathed in bouquet, realizing
I was not only the wine, but crushed grapes,
Even vine on the hill, warm under Sun.
On Fourth of July, I am always
Shooting stars exploding in night;
Or the red canoe covered by winter snow
Down alone on the shore of the lake.
I am the bull in the meadow;
Sometimes rout swimming alive up streams.
More than once in cities,
I was paper blowing down windy streets.
The cracked china plate in the cupboard is me,
More often than I admit I see.
But never am I afraid to acknowledge
I’m full moon behind the clouds or the trees,
Candlelight flame on the mantle….
Singing cricket on summer’s evening—that’s me.
But never am I the big sharp knife in the drawer;
Never the rifle waiting hidden behind the door.
Please, God, never the weapon that wounds.
See me instead as chipped cup that still holds tea.
Look for me when searching for first robin
Singing in early spring or eagle soaring or
Ancient mountain forever sleeping beside calm lake.