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.