Valley

At sunrise, when
the world blinks
itself awake
in strands of light that lean
out over the hills and lazily come
to rest in the valley,
you may believe that you
are the first
one to arrive. Does each

beginning owe itself
the thought of rarity? It may be

the flowers. The flowers

are blinding. In every tiny mirror color, each
singular petal of soft
life unfolded, so much is shown
that you cannot know
how to look. Should you linger

on the white sparkles of azalea or the plunging
grace of the spare wild lilies? Can anything
take your glance from the trees at edge that shudder
in breeze like time shaking loose
from the day? In the moist bed of meadow the water
at your feet soaks with
the thirst of birth, seeking
to quench each unanswerable

truth as if they had never
been sought out before. The valley will beg
for you to live here. It will need
you to know. It will unveil

the comfort of its adjacent hills—the way

each slope angles only
toward you, here, where you are, among
the stems and grass.

What have you ever
done to reason against it? The morning,
in its cool, gentle candor, will make
no argument for you. This,
in the valley, can only be seen.