Twenty-Five

The sun is rising
on all the libraries
in the world. I am here
half-asleep and dreaming,
my knot of wool
still wound around
my chest. I am here,
eyes half-fluttering open
to the silk light. This is good.
Dust drifts like a field
of grazing horses. This is good
and beautiful and I am still here
to see it. There is still time
for all these curious things to open
up and be noticed: jeweled seeds
catacombing the pomegranate,
cinnamon coffee. Grass so soft
it stains your knees to kneel.
I rub my cheek. Half-awake,
with so much left to be asked for
and given. Oh, love.
You have no idea.