The way some plants hold the rain until they need it,
or for others who may be passing by,
for bugs and birds and words and lovers,
pools and jewels for all they’ve suffered,
tender, the grass, tender, the skin, tender, the sky,
free at last from foolish thoughts of sin,
fearless in each perfection that makes faces of their hands,
O, where do I begin, if not this precious way to end?