By Ashton Vaughn
Who turns the hands of the clock,
fastidious and careful, over
and over again and again?
Who animates the chipmunk
that gently lifts himself out of the earth,
and once, twice, snaps his head to the sky
to peer at the sun he has forgotten?
What is it that moves in the wren
to urge her to sing—
what is it that calls forth the blackbirds,
year after year,
to flood the skies in raven waves
and leave the muddled face of Death
burnished like a sigil in our thought?
I know not why when the music begins
my feet turn to dancing and my voice to song,
but I do know there is something
lively and wild and wonderful
coursing through each life, each body,
and that every time I give myself over to it
I can once again feel the sun shining upon my face.
When the raven waves arrive,
and the song of the wren is diminished,
I think I shall be waiting,
not sitting—but dancing and singing,
ready to greet them with whatever song the Earth may have of me.