Whose life is this anyway?
What is directing the birds’ flight
and the clouds’ path?
What made the mornings?
the one I heard from where I was lying,
deep in duvet,
listening to hear whether it was sunny or raining,
constructing a scene outside from the sounds—
a tree in white bloom,
a neighbor walking a poorly behaving dog,
a zagging car,
a flamboyant bird—
whose life is this anyway?
I know exactly whose life it is,
and I join them,
in all their bloom and occasional misbehavior,
in all their being,
feeling gratitude for having a choice,
feeling silence and idleness,
being present for morning,
being present for the good ones, for coffee, for truth, for cereal,
for everything that comes now.