It has vast, invisible wings that gather dirt
and need rinsing.
When it tries to kill you
that is because you've forgotten
to let it look into someone's eyes
for longer than a minute.
It needs that the way a bee needs nectar
in the early morning dew.
Every so often, take it on a journey.
Let it read long, hard books
and let it stare into the depths of the sea.
Yes, you can give it chips and whiskey
but from time to time let it kneel
in a place that is holy
like the simple cathedral of the willows.
All it wants is to live, to keep becoming.
Nourish it, and it puts down roots, it opens.
But starve it, and the mind, the flesh is empty;
the world breaks down; symphonies go unwritten;
the rockets fall; the children die
in flames.
Listen. It is not too late
to wake it. Say the names
of the wild, the forgotten things:
bluebird, red wolf, robin; violet, child, clover.
You cannot save the world but you can open
the window for the trapped wren in the cellar.
Read a book to a blind man, to your father.
Tell a child you do believe her anger.
Make your life the first life that you save.
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