Poem of the week

2026年03月14日

Almost Awake: Spring Morning Gratitude
By Li-Young Lee

Open window. Blue sun. Green sun. Last night light rain fell off and on. Thunder rumbling nudged me how many times almost awake? Windowsill wet. Blue and green shadows on the garden wall. Flowers fallen into the birdbath. Wings, sparrows and finches, splashing in the pool. The bathers’ cries of pleasure make a sound like tiny anklets ringing or little sacks of coins being shook. Those little pipers know how to pipe and never grow hoarse. But I know in silence something raucous birds don’t know: everything in the garden belongs to Death. Everything is alive and thriving in Death’s garden. Even the gardener, Life, is Death in disguise. In order to learn the secret words of Life, the little flowers recite Death’s calculus in school. It’s Death’s cursive they read and copy. It takes them years to make the letters of  Life as flawlessly as Death makes the letters. It takes them years more to make the words of  Life as clearly as Death makes the words. Love is the tutor this morning in Death’s garden. Love is the tutor every morning in Death’s garden. The birds at their bath know none of this. They proclaim things we learned in kindergarten: All flowers are born betrothed. All flowers fall in love with butterflies. Betrothed to whom? They don’t know. And they don’t know the butterflies are my elder brothers. The birds think it makes me jealous or lonely when the flowers throng the paths and stretch their necks for a glimpse of my brothers passing. Look, shining in the wind, bearing our ancestors’ eyes on their wings, there go my brothers now: Jacob, Jonathan, and Joseph. That leaves me all by myself to wait for Hummingbird.