There is this hour when my mother 
and daughter and I are side by side 
shaping soft red dough into tiny balls 
to add to the green spritz wreaths; 
the kitchen smells of almond 
and butter, and there are carols 
on the stereo and it’s going to snow. 
Yes, I know there are thousands  
of imperfect moments,  
but there is also this moment  
when I find myself smiling  
in a small kitchen in a narrow river valley
in a vast mountain range on a large continent
on a smallish planet in one galaxy among 
the hundreds of billions that somehow 
all belong to a universe that’s expanding faster 
than we think it should— 
and as I hum along to a medieval hymn 
about how a rose is blooming, 
my heart scoured, my heart full, 
how is it I, too, am a chord unfolding from minor
to major amid the cold of winter? 
How is it I am a rose blooming bright, 
faster than I think I should,  
this dark season strangely blessed?