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Nowhere in sight, but everywhere
in this spring morning’s milky air,
blithe as piccolos, tiny fairy wrens
are singing: clear, sparkling trills and runs;
and as if their songs were not gift enough,
here upon this plain brown desk indoors,
tender yellow, pink and orange tones
with leaf or two, soft green, before my eyes
nasturtiums lucent in a simple glass:
a Monet still life come to life.
What a day for springtime to begin!
What a time and day to be alive in,
to feel the sudden rush of love to the heart,
for painter, poet and all who wait
without expectation, but openness enough
simply to receive — itself the gift of praise —
promises and possibilities held out,
to touch at last one’s centre and its stillness
and be given “in the midst of endlessness”
flowers, birds, small miracles of life.
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