I want to tell you something. This morning
is bright after all the steady rain, and every iris,
peony, rose, opens its mouth, rejoicing. I want to say,
wake up, open your eyes, there’s a snow-covered road
ahead, a field of blankness, a sheet of paper, an empty screen.
Even the smallest insects are singing, vibrating their entire bodies,
tiny violins of longing and desire. We were made for song.
I can’t tell you what prayer is, but I can take the breath
of the meadow into my mouth, and I can release it for the leaves’
green need. I want to tell you your life is a blue coal, a slice
of orange in the mouth, cut hay in the nostrils. The cardinals’
red song dances in your blood. Look, every month the moon
blossoms into a peony, then shrinks to a sliver of garlic.
And then it blooms again.

Used with permission of the poet. From Radiance (Word Press, 2005).

Barbara Crooker is author of ten full-length books of poetry: Slow Wreckage (Grayson Books, 2024); Some Glad Morning (Pitt Poetry Series) (longlisted for the Julie Suk award), and The Book of Kellls (Cascade Books), winner of the Best Poetry Book of 2019 Award from Poetry by the Sea, are her newest collections.