Counting Sunbeams

I will sing today of the sum of all I see.
I will concede the worth of my conception.
I will bask in the effulgent mystery
Of seeing and being a moment of perception.

I hear the ceaselessly prayed meditations of the flowing brook.
In fire-hued leaves of maple I read the runes of creation’s cryptic book
Placed so overtly in the face of crystal earth.
For an instant I exceed the measure of my birth!

In reverence I heed the significance of my death.
I distill all the flavors of existence into one breath,
Of frost painted in patterns of divinity upon the window pane,
Of weeping willows whispering along the meandering lane,

Of a rock high upon a cliff side,
Where I once watched eagles glide,
Of a cat that sat on my knee,
Of all life forces that surround me,

Of all living things ever begotten,
Of long-lost tales left to blow forgotten
In a wind that knows well its own time,
Having heard many ages the oft-spoken rhyme.

In a tune fervored but fleeting,
Synchronized to the rhythm of my heart’s unsteady beating,
I sing to the gods who wear this collective disguise -
Praise I speak though it be to my own demise,

In half-remembered lyrics of my childhood,
Diluted to fit my limited understanding of evil and good.
I hope to be more, on angel-winged seeds to ride,
To be a reflection of rose petals, and in the radiance of the stars abide.

Oh, I wonder of many marvelous things,
Of who and why and how!
But I have a field to plow,
And an unknown limit of springs.

So I account my time counting sunbeams of golden noon,
Sowing divination from my outstretched hand
Of mud, of dust, of crumbling sand.
And perhaps I may reap a swathe of the harvest moon.

Before the robins in fickle earnest fly away,
In praise of wonder, in joyous refrain,
With uplifted voice so I sing today,
Should tomorrow and the chance never come again.

~ Daniel F Mitchell