Sometimes my desire to know this world leads me to know that there is no knowing. There is only remembering. There is only reclaiming. There is only beckoning and welcoming.
How can one small body take such meticulous inventory of Her?
Shall I bow in awe?
Or gasp in wonder?
The sky exists azure inside the deepest cavern of the heart.
The roots of the oak trees run deep through veins of my legs.
The flowering and feathering of the leaves as sensitive as our ten finger tips.
My eyes as fine as the mouse, and wide like the eagle.
All nature rests inside this body.
There is no knowing.