Blessing for the Cosmic Whole

May you, in some altered state
of sleeplessness or psychedelics
or come-to-the-edge coming apart,
access a cosmic view of the whole: span of

sapiens, a sweep of your broom
on the back stoop. Empires rising and falling
like breath and your life: a flash of sunlight
reflected in a hummingbird’s ruby throat.

A cicada grows for seventeen years
underground so it can sing for two days.
The Appalachians were as tall as the Alps
before they softened into bosoms.

This singular morning, raspberries melt magenta
in your oatmeal, honeysuckle hooks
to the chain link fence, and you, stubbornly
refuse to add to your suffering.

When you sit waiting for your beloved
who is making you late for dinner,
may you have the fortitude to break the quiet
by cueing up their favorite song. May we drink

the jolt of pleasure that comes
from remembering we are alive,
soft sheets of moss
supping from the same rock.

– Rev. Molly Bolton, enfleshed

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