Have you stepped out
into the wet air
and been hit
in the chest and nostrils
by the freshness
and the life?
(You can almost hear it humming
deep down inside the grass
each blade sings to its Maker:
Thanks be to God for
damp day and dew-dappled dusk,
for fragrant flowers refreshed by
sweet shafts sun shot between
clouds gray and heavy, pregnant with life and rain,
dripped down to brown and thankful dust
from which we rise, and
to which we return.
O Lord, how shall we lift our evening praise,
we thousand-million voiceless growing things?)
And so they cloud the air
thick with purest incense invisible
as the day breathes a goodnight
and the Lord trims the lamp and tucks us into bed.