Dear Life,

what is wonder but knowledge of that
which we could not ever anticipate?

Light slants toward the west—
its passing brilliance sears
the eyes and leaves us often

breathless— as if for the first time,
every time. And do we know more now
than we did yesterday, or less?

The birds come back to search
for seed cached in the wintry soil:
under the eaves, in groves

of roughened trees— They’ve never
learned; or they are wiser, trusting
they will find their portion.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.