That’s him in the pear tree.
That’s him in the front yard,
Rising from the flower beds.
That’s him in the plum trees
That line the streets downtown,
Giving light before dawn.
Him in the streams of snow melt,
Him in the voices calling themselves
From high in the alders.
The crow drives the hawk,
The sparrows chase the crow,
A bald eagle flies past the kitchen window.
He’s the new grass overtaking the lawns,
The neighbor’s cat spraying his claim,
The sunlight outgrowing the limits of day.
He isn’t here to forgive sins
Or to redeem us from the ground
And if we live forever
It’s only that, seeing him
We forget ourselves,
And not for long.
Don’t look in the grave.
Don’t look for him in the flower myths of Lebanon
Or the Aztec fields of corn.
Don’t look tomorrow.
Look now and look all around. This is him.
