Does it serve me?         

Does it serve me how this morning swells open on the sky like peace?

Does it serve me to swim in this sharp gold light while the horsetail clouds

splay on the turquoise sky and the pair of ravens fly side by side quorking

their morning chat, more ordinary than the first sip of fresh-ground coffee?

Whatever of this I bury in my soft fleece pocket will shrivel by noon

or wither like the dead skink on the doorstep, the browning of fall apples.

The shrill voices of those who shred the universe into flags of hate

will drown out the seeds of purple grass swaying against the adobe wall.

There must be soft ribbons to glean from here, perhaps pine-green grosgrain

sliced the width of slivers, slender threads to tie through the day

to all that is beautiful. One left for the walking stick insect who takes his name

from a phantom. One for the goatshead burr that wants nothing

more than to rankle. One for the snake doctor dragonfly. One in my hair.

I promise not to compare this morning to any other. I have walked this

gravel road before. That confidence serves as a platter, tray, a bowl,

open palm to the days before me, road to the other side.

Joy is not made to be a crumb.

—Mary Oliver, in Devotions

My sister bakes two loaves, watching

through the oven window for gold,

a crust you could tap before you cut it,

that would crunch in your teeth

or hold the heat until you slather

this smell of heaven with what melts

and runs down your fingers.

She has no thought to who might eat the bread.

The FedEx driver delivers the new hummingbird

feeder, and the dogs return from a romp chasing

squirrels, the neighbor drops in to borrow

one half-cup of sugar, and two cardinals

bathe in the white bird bath so she had little

thought of saving and knows to spend it freely

even as two gray mice sneak in that night

to grab what fell to the floor in slicing.