Even the hyena
does not hate the gazelle
it ambushes at the waterhole.
Or virus mock the cell it withers.
The sun is not drunk with power,
nor gravity count the things that fall.
An echo does not cling to the canyon wall
or gravedigger blame the holes he must fill.
The owl’s eye for the kitten is as sacred
as a cloud’s fluffy demotic
or the Altarpiece at Ghent.
Light, wind, blood, water, ash;
each must keep its own time.
And the mystery is not ours to praise.
Because love’s true delight
which knows nothing of night or day,
but troubles our sleep
by singing joyously,
even in the dark.