If we can distill one single essence
from the wonders that surround us,
it might be this: that life likes living.
Let’s say it again: life likes living,
life perpetuates herself with ease,
grace, and unfiltered generosity.
The Earth is thirsty; there is rain.
Creatures are gasping; watch;
seedlings and shoots are growing.
The trees they become give us
our own capacity to be nourished,
offer shade when the fire sun,
doing what it does best, emits
the heat that sustains our time here.
The world is glowing, ever-creating,
you can see in in the tiniest things,
the small flower peeking through
the concrete we’ve laid in hopes
of asserting a semblance of control
where we never really had any,
for more than an uneasy little while.
Life likes living, and will persist
in this, an uncanny triumph as great
as our capacity to be and to imagine,
and of course they are the same.
Our imaginations, too, have no end,
they grow and are fed on the same
rich soil from which everything comes.
We are tendrils growing with the trees,
we are stars piercing through the night,
and it is only when we choose to be apart,
to regard nature’s beauty as though
we are not embedded right inside of it,
that we compromise its right to flourish
and the unbearable pain begins,
because we’ve forgotten life’s love of life.
May we remember the heart of us,
borne of earth’s blood, skyward bound,
and serve the life that we are with joy.