Do you know what it is to yield, to be grateful for the many or few of your possessions without being possessed by them, without being possessed at all, without being mad or angry or outraged, without the need or desire to control, without the need to be right, or the need to be wrong, or ugly, or beautiful, or happy, or sad, or to identity with your self-designed load? You smile. I bow —
Just as the flower
was confessing its faith
to the bee, it was claimed
by a gardener’s shear.
(This little poem, “Faith,” is part of my Songs and Letters, and was written July 10, 2008. The question leading up to it, your imagined reaction, and then mine — well, I feel like a flower this morning, that’s all, a flower willing to bloom, or go.)