On the greening grass, two scarlet leaves, fused
by a smudge of leaf-mold at center, glisten with
a trace of last night’s rain.
 
In the cerulean sky, more clear than we remember,
the sun bathes the Earth—announcing nearby star,
provider of all life.
 
We were negligent—foolish not to contemplate
the heavens more often, or cherish fallen leaves
in the ready chalice of our palms.
 
Now a skein of blackbirds wheels and wheels
far above the naked trees—a single bird-mind
flinging it against the plum horizon.
 
And water cycles through the clouds and seas,
feeding forest life and fallow fields, carving
canyons in ancestral hills.
 
These have all endured, though we are done—
these, and whatever else survived our blind
meddling in their communal lives; survived
 
our hubris in believing we alone were destined
to inherit the Earth and the fullness thereof—
we who now have lost the primordial garden.

All the soarings of my mind begin in my blood.
—Rainer Maria Rilke

Toward dawn last night, my left ear on the 
pillow caught the slow beating of my heart,                 
a calm, persistent whooshing in my skull.

I shifted my position to lessen it a bit but 
still that steady rhythm kept me awake, tuned 
to the organ that began its work long months 

before my birth. Night thoughts, some call 
these visitations that find us in the dark— 
memories stored in the heart’s brain cells, 

each cell holding its own. I should listen
unafraid to this companion who keeps me 
living while it can. Whether curled around 

another whom I love, or pulling close 
the covers for their warmth, I honor the 
bloodlines that have brought me here,

this faithful heart that lets me fall asleep 
again, wake again, stretch to  greet the 
morning, breathe deeply, and rise.