Blessed is the day. Blessed is the bitterness
of burning leaves. Blessed are the lonely
notes of iridescent insects.
Do not mind the crow, his fierce bark.
He will guide us through the ghosts.
He is the patron of the lost and potsherd.
Blessed is the desert. Blessed are the blind
their fingertips touching warm fruit.
Blessed are the scarlet blossoms.
Bees thrum in and out, trembling
the flowers. They are scentless, dusty,
like the eyes of the prophesied dead.
Blessed is the dawn scattering its flushed seeds.
Blessed is the light that cups our breasts.
Blessed is the milk.
The morning hours will evaporate
these spirits like frost, will shed their skin
until there is only hunger.
Blessed are the forsaken, the hollows
where their hearts have seized.
Blessed are the stones which sow this sad earth.