The Wren

No wonder our ancestors worshipped the sun
Numinous both bodies, here and there, of gas and flesh and bone
Of hope, so that
In light, we recognized our home

It scatters now like grains of sand across a glassy dome,
Shattering in shades of pink so that nothing seems to move;
Is held in thrall, all

But the sky every moment is changing, if we can slow our breath down to look,
Transcending the fear of seeing

Does the wren in her nest turn now and worship?
Do the trees offer obeisance?

I am, somehow, here,
Writing symbols into words
And behind them,
Worlds raise their hands generously to accept what no words could ever capture
No poet enter,
Only standing at the threshold, pen dropping with the open jaw, in awe, we watch our words scatter like sand, and grace makes of them some shade of pink and orange, to greet the day at hand

How can I, breathing, tasting, touching, seeing,
Not see how everything rises like a murmuration of starlings?
Every single thing intelligent, the breathful and breathless,
Speaking that all things are fully forming, here and somewhere near us
And the wren is its perfection—
As with everything the sunlight touches