First there’s the big, bold sunset, so spectacular put-on-a-show.

Then tiny sparrow, piping the same – soon familiar – tune.

Next comes the wind, rushing southward, playing the leaves in waves.

And later the gift of rain: pummeling, drizzling, spotting, gone.

And before long, I’m in love with my heavy knife, that firm apple, this shiny chair.

The plump pillow, those jagged keys, your flickering candle, a hopeful moth.

It’s a rush; it’s a spiral heavenwards.

Because attention is only the beginning of devotion.