Such abundance of basics,
tremulous cold water on our faces.
warm water waiting in the shower head;
no, we don't die, we merely ripen
in the wet rock, rained on by sky and,
of course, by streams in their many moods,
various percussions.

And do we not shimmer in the throat of song,
the finches that come by daily,
the occasional red-winged blackbird,
the mourning doves whose grief is purely ornamental
for don't they hog the meatiest of seeds at the feeder.
and aren't their wings wide and light enough
to ride the praise and silence of our breath.

And what of color, its ceaseless flow
from lawn to forest to prints on shirts and blouses;
there really is no end in sight,
not for earth, not for trees, not for us;
we're reinvented by the future;
our molecules feed fish and foundling,
our love strives to be stars.