Proof

If ever there was a time I knew
my own worth, knowing
not so much like knowing
exactness or fractions known,
but understanding, a deep knowing,

a comfort settling heavy and warming,
Mammaw’s quilt on a December morning,
whose weight brings still sleep back,
pure craft and love felt on contact.

but back

to knowing

I was something that belonged I knew,
a cell in a smooth lively muscle, knowing
an intricate placement, a knitted stitch knowing
its part in holding small things together, known
only because the whole holds. I got that knowing

early last evening from one indigo bunting
settling by my feeder, sorting seeds and hunting
for one oily pearl of perfection,
who ruffled his purple back in satisfaction.

no thanks

just knowing

I have done a good small thing and knew
that’s all I can do
and it’s my best
and to the earth’s lithe body, my service.

— VH McKinnie

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