i am rewritten by songbirds in the morning,
singing glorias to the sun in c minor

by soft spiderwebs in high places,
touched with dew that glistens tender
on gossamer threads spun new and whole

by sleepy saplings and ancient oaks,
waking to the sky with open arms
that sway and move and praise,
that bend but do not break.

how often it is we forget to look up.


originally published inĀ Eliot’s Face, lent 2016