Even if we never wear these shirts,
lie on these sheets,
eat off these tablecloths,
they will still flap out blue
between the buildings,
an unexpected line of colour
like a grace note.
(And should we live to bring them in
they will smell like fresh sunshine.)
Happiness lies poised between
eternity
and the next moment.
This shirt reaching out its wet arms
to yesterday’s wind and sun,
now dryly embraces my arms.
And every leek cut lengthways,
every garlic clove chopped,
every basil leaf
is both its own good
and the potential of a meal
if the world goes on so long.
Yes, we could die on any morning,
slipping between moments,
gone between words in a conversation,
our worlds could end at any time.
Yet here we are, doing laundry,
making dinner,
making poetry,
making the mindful choices,
living in every moment,
because it is this moment,
every action its own action,
every word a benison.
9th May 2012
