Here I Am in My Garden

Here I am in my garden.
I have no idea what makes it grow
or my fingers move.
I only know that sunshine
in my brain and bones
is like God loving me.
The wind glides as a naked hand
over my body
while the sea goes on calling
her sweet songs
to wandering birds:
She’s like a wild fisherwoman
with foam-white hair
saying, come catch my wares,
or a quizzical old dancer in a blue dress
wooing me to be a silent witness with her
of the stars.
Meanwhile, I work like a child works,
aware of little but the play
of my hands with earth.
Seeds fall from my fingers
to do their little duties.
I spill my tin watering cup
and magic happens.
Sometimes a thought comes
that holds the secret of what it is made.
Then my blood roars loud in my veins.
This also passes, settling like a wave
back into this sea of peace
somehow,
I am.