Gary L. McDowell
Forests were the first cathedrals,
and grass, the first living thing.
God is a beehive first thing on a winter morning.
First things:
my body a city,
the bonfire at the top of the hill.
My eyes take midnight hostage.
In a world of perpetual dawn,
nobody is ever missing.
Thank you, my sudden-little-wonder.
Thank you, my I’ve-been-told-no-before.
I am fat with things. And life begins.
A pocket full of spiders without webs,
even bored animals appear in paintings.
Thank you, my narrow-weeper,
my speech-alone,
my book-teeming-with-priests.