TO BE CALLED
the spangled lantern
of Japanese maple
lights the morning garden.
The hawthorn’s red berries,
Last night the gibbous moon
ignited frost on the trash can lids.
Day or night
reverence rises from the ordinary.
To behold the moment, desiring nothing,
is to behold eternal presence simply
waiting recognition. The quiet heart
receives. The ungrasping eye sees
how the world longs to give itself,
how underneath all longing
we long to be called