the birds come to my birdbath

 

Philip Sutton, The Tree, 1958

 

emelle says:

I’m a fool with little need of company.

There’s no one deemed respectable here,
so how could I demand respect?

When recognition only brings busyness,
how could I not love invisibility?

Knowing that mind is the slayer of silence
why would I want “the last word?”

Saturated by streaming aliveness
how could I be lonely?

I cherish the extraordinariness
of ordinary suchness
but few know what that looks like,
so I’ll tell you:

The birds come to my birdbath.

The dogs wag their tails
when I open my door.

My luna-lover beams at me
without reproach or expectation.

My cup runneth over
and the ants make the most of it;
they even cart off my toenail clippings.

When the tide of breath runs out
they will claim every scrap of this body
and have a banquet with the worms.

And their scats will feed the earth;
new grass will grow in the summer,
sap will rise in the trees
and they will exhale my smile.

I will be breathed back
into the fecundity of space.

Just like that.
And that’s enough for me.

 


Image: Philip Sutton, The Tree, 1958
philipsuttonra.com


 

17 thoughts on “the birds come to my birdbath

  1. “My cup runneth over
    and the ants make the most of it;”
    ahhh

    and ” I will be breathed back
    into the fecundity of space.”

    this makes me very happy

  2. First this – “When recognition only brings busyness,
    how could I not love invisibility?”, and *yes*

    This this – “Knowing that mind is the slayer of silence
    why would I want “the last word?”, and *yes yes*

    And again – “Saturated by streaming aliveness
    how could I be lonely?”, and more yes, more wonderment to see my own heart in reflection.

    And then the birds, the dog, the ants and worms, and I find myself dancing in joyful abandon with dear, sweet emelle. Big love all around, Dear One. 🙂

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