Each morning I arise to a world subtly
changed. At breakfast I thank all that
labored overnight to keep me alive—
bats, insects, roots digging their
tongues into Earth’s veins for a sip
of blood. I pour a glass of lake
and eat a slice of mountain,
open my blinds to let in that stranger,
the slow-rising sun I’ve entrusted my
waking hours to. Good morning, good morning.
Would you like some butter? We have so little time!
I had a dream where from an impossible height
I took in all the splendor and all the pain
we’ve learned to live with.
Do you hear that commotion? Farmworkers,
poets, and bees are gathering their tools—
some they use to survive, others to transform,