This squirrel digs my grave and marks it
with an acorn. Years from now,
when he’s forgotten all about me,
a large tree will grow in my place. There might
be something amiss about thanking a flower
the way I’d thank a person who gave me a song
or a leftover pickle, but I don’t know
what to call the thing I want most to thank.
To stand forever in awe of the world
like a tadpole in a sink full of dishes.
To take vocal lessons and grow turnips
on a hill, to learn to praise, though
to imagine some One to Whom
the Praises Go is probably a mistake –
before receiving the tablets, Moses
covers his eyes, lest the Transcendent
smite him down, even though
the second definition of smite is
to fall madly in love (hence smitten),
which offers the delightful possibility
of making eye contact with one’s Smiter,
of kissing said Smiter on the lips, or falling
asleep right on the Smiter’s breathing chest
and cooking in the morning two yellow eggs.
