When the sun shines on Ivy’s golden hair,
I catch a piece of the meaning of life.
Here on the hammock,
we read a poem and watch a bee crawling on the grass,
moving to the slight motion of a July breeze
and the weight of our bodies close,
leaning to the woven centre.
She rests her arm on my leg,
“Well, isn’t this a beautiful day,”
and I do believe no truer words were spoken.
Her praise is an ordination I never expected,
a mantle passed from young to old,
as only a child can confirm this calling.
Perhaps the only one who can tell you who you are
is the one that passes through your body
and pulls you out of yourself
into long, slow love
and simple nearness.
A lawnmower drones in the distance,
a handful of sparrows dart and sing,
and we swing,
suspended in the knowing,
knowing our place,