by Penn Kemp

 

Blessed be here. Blessed be finches
who vary their song in language only
other birds interpret. Blessed be squirrels
who scold all intruders into submission.

Blessed be hostas and fern, mixing wild
with cultivated. Blessed be composted
soil that allows for splendid fluorescence.
Blessed be standing waves over the shoal.

Blessed be silent wing of crow and when it
lands on a spruce branch, that raucous caw.
Blessed be the interchange of story, space
to be alone together. Blessed be silence.

Blessed be the daily, the expanse of time.
Blessed be the dream. Blessed be night
that covers the shore in a moiré spread.

Blessed be the bare black cherry, dead
in winter’s past blast but ready to turn
into fire’s best wood, slow- burning,

hot. Blessed be the poet whose refrain
runs through a still too busy brain still
listening, listening to the river’s flow.

Carp leap and fall, circling in stream.
Like calls to like through brightening air
as Persephone arrives, as she returns.