Anointing
When the heart
is full the slightest
breath of birdsong
quivering on morning’s
level edge will break
its brimming, spill
liquescent cries
in rivulets along
the line of nearing
light, leave
sound and silvered
drops like grace
on each bowed
stem long after it
is emptied, rises
washed and luminous
a meadowlark
before the sun,
a winged and feathered cup
new-trembling, trilling
full and running over.