I can’t quite pen the autumn-turning trees
the hawk that called
as it sailed above my head.
Tears filled my eyes at the glory of it all,
the gentle work of my heart,
from looking back and forth in time
to holding the present the way I might hold
an etched and hollow robin’s egg,
I can’t write damp rocks from morning rain
that woke me in the dark, making up the path
I walked upon this day of gentle wind and
sunshine peeks through a hovering, billowy grey.
I give this, a shadow of the blessed gift.