The effect of the priestly act extends beyond the
consecrated host to the
cosmos itself. The entire realm of matter is slowly but
irresistibly
affected by this great consecration.

With the nightfall that shreds the horizon
with blight twisting the roseleaves
with cutworms & spitworms, summer's
crude instruments of change,
we are one thing, waiting to be turned-

***

I pull a plant from the ground:
among its roots, a hundred little eyes.

A few tugs on the mass of elliptical leaves
& globes appear, pocked, planetary.
On them, a small woman
pulls potatoes-
Because each thing is both itself & everything.

I am a gardener, I could show you
veronica, valerian, columbine, the foxglove's
stairway of little flutes-

But most of the story, I know, is drought & rot,
leaves tattered by slugs, slugs
hooked & rising,
a jay gawking in my window
at the tomcat, anticipating
something, some transformation...