Devotion

Robin sings loudest out on the Shaganappi,
high in the cottonwoods, her shrill celebration of dawn lifts
my soul out of its shoes to touchdown on the helium-green turf.

I lift my eyes in admiration, I lift my coffee in a toast of devotion,
my mind turns to reverence, my instinct is to genuflect.
Everything in me bows down.

It’s Sunday, but my church is with the robin.
It’s Sunday morning and robin-song is my opening
hymn, my sermon and benediction.

Robin is not drunk on honeysuckle, as you may think;
she is filled with the spirit of first-light, the spirit of awe.
Robin cries life in the emancipating dawn.

My mind is the fluff of dandelion, my thoughts, a hive of bees,
but Robin is my rumination, her rhymed refrain,
my veneration, and I stand in quiet exaltation.

One sees with the eyes, comprehends with the mind,
reflects with the soul, still, seeing and comprehending
and reflecting are replete with mystery.

One loves the immediate surround or doesn’t love at all.
One disowns the prison of things, leaves all idolized needs,
to follow the river to its source, or forever thirsts.

It’s Sunday, but it’s Sunday every day.
Praise, and every day, bow down.