welcomers of that ancient joy

In a crease of the hill

under the light,

out of the wind,

as warmth, bloom, and song

return, lady, I think of you,

and myself with you.

What are we but forms

of self-acknowledging

light that brings us

warmth and song from time

to time? Lip and flower,

hand and leaf, tongue

and song, what are we but welcomers

of that ancient joy, always

coming, always passing?

Mayapples rising

out of old time, leaves

folded down around

the stems, as if for flight,

flower bud folded in 

unfolding leaves, what

are we but hosts

of times, of all

the Sabbath morning shows,

the light that finds it good.

~ Wendell Berry

from This Day - Collected and New Sabbath Poems