The World is Made of Gift

The world is made of gift
and so it should be received,
a slow unfolding of everything,
each moment’s beauty, its essence
decanted, witnessed, its stunning
singularity welcomed, how from
nothing a delight is born, not twice
the same; birdsong, I mean, how it
pierces dawn’s silence then erupts
into just-once music, how this day
springs from that night, and now from
then; how shadows grow from light,
the way leaves unfurl from buds,
eat sun, transmute color, stem
to tip, green-gold-orange-scarlet,
or swollen air dispatches thunder,
and rainbows unroll, released from storms,
or how a vixen digs her den, hunts, sleeps,
and kits emerge in spring, pawing at life,
or syrup runs from maples, fire sparks
from flint, life uncoils from eggs or seeds,
or death, gifts and miracles spiral
everywhere, pouring in, flowing out,
a world drenched in correlation, mutuality,
giving, taking, always pulsing, time, I mean,
it passes: words to silence, summer to fall,
fire to ash, the moments, the senses,
the smell of the sea, salt tides dancing to
moonsong, the intoxicating rose, and touch,
how love will rise from touch, its spreading
heat, how the intricate snowflake, a prophecy
of pattern, will light upon your sleeve,
melting, as you read its message:
we are here, just once,
perfect, passing, connected,
flowing always into gift.

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