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.