In the garden,

the cool dirt sighs and blesses the morning. It is too early to draw a map of the day, and I’m grateful. The air is unburdened, uninterested in wrapping itself onto the stuff of the world. Do the birds dream at night of a morning so fresh and fragrant? Even the flies if seen through a microscope are smiling to themselves, as they love the furniture, the grass, the branch, the pavement all the same. I’m so full of whatever it is that life is full of, a vibrating mass, a weighted pawn. Drive by the animals, a safari of the soul, and take to the fingertips, all the tips pointing, grabbing, caressing. The caterpillar has engorged himself and I don’t blame him, the earth spoils if you wait for permission. The weeds were pulled weeks ago, left in a pile like dried candle wicks yearning for their waxy home. Scarves wrapped around tree trunks, bracelets adorn the tomato plants, a wristwatch in the rock garden. I built this place but I’ll never take credit. It was as much an accident as the wind sometimes yawns, forgetting that life depends on it being awake and alert. You see, each moment that passes is an infinity sentence, all that’s ever been, all that will ever be and will never be. The book is written on both the atomic and celestial plane. You can see the writing yourself if you relax the eyes enough, letting your field of vision dissolve into abstract forms. Can’t you see the writing now? The first language? It speaks too. If you let your ears float like half deflated balloons you will hear the rustling of the first tongue. And as you do this, can I ask you to think of me? Remember me as you would remember the invention of morning, the peeling open of eyelids, the birth, the mourning, the celebration.