Love the small things of the earth.
The dust. The dark rain in the lemon trees.
The sound of moonflowers opening
at evening. Love them
even when the sky is burning,
even when a mother crouches with her child
in a dark room, wetting his lips
with a small glass of water. Love them
quietly, quietly but ferociously,
their hearts in them like flocks
the wind has furled.
And then, in the spring, if the world
has survived, walk out
with your gift that you have practiced,
your fresh gift that has ripened in secret;
lie down in the long, soft grass of summer
and wait for love, wait for it
to find you,
and when it lays its hand at last
upon your shoulder, open
to all that is about to happen;
rise up and walk off into the lemon trees
and live awhile, live awhile
with someone — their eyes, their scent, their curls —
and when love departs, when love
is done and fallen, stand there
in the coming winds of autumn
and turn back to the small things
that have been with you —
buttons, apples, chapters —
and then, because you've practiced this
forever, because you are ready now
for the hardest task of all of them,
lay your hand on the changed face in the mirror
and look at it —
its wounds, its crimes, its changes —
and tell yourself what you see
deserves your mercy — that face, that name, that stranger —
and place your palms on that one life in the mirror
and open to the whole of it, the whole of it,
and love it like the last chance of the world.
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