Lauds for St. Germaine Cousin (1579-1601)

Blessed is the One who lifts the slow sun

above this morning's raw orange edge,

who moves the ewe to nudge her birth-

stunned lamb into the flock's heat, who

leads the hen to steer her keets as soon as

they can walk into the insect-

filled, high grass, guides the owl to tear fresh

pigeon into pieces small enough

to fill the owlet's gaping bill,

and prompts the rat to lick the pup

that's not her own and take it to her side,

directs the swan to trumpet,

bob her head, and raise her wings, quivering

into a living canopy

above the nest built without hands

by those who have no hands, just wings,

wings that cannot weave but must and somehow

do, just as I twist thread from the distaff's

wild wether wool, skirted, sorted, scoured,

and drawn into bumps of roving

held awry until the sun lifts

high enough to warm these slow fingers

spinning fast and faster, dropping

the spindle like a top, whorling

fibers clockwise to pull the yarn

taut and straight, plying many into one.