"I favor your enterprise," the soup ladle says.
"And I regard you and your project with joy."

At Grand Forks where the road divides twice over,
the wet wooden squeegee handle poking out
of the bucket beside the red gas pump tells you,
"Whichever way—hey, for you they're all okay."

The stunted pine declares from someone's backyard
you happen to be passing, "I don't begrudge you
your good health. In fact, my blessing—you've got it, now."

An ironing board is irrepressible.
"Your success is far from certain, my friend,
and still it's vital to my happiness."

The yellow kernels in the dust, mere chicken feed,
call out, "We salute you, and you can count on us."

We do not live in a world of things
but among benedictions given
and—do you know what I'm saying?—received.