When I burrow under the covers
the blanket knows nothing
of the comfort it will offer.
 
Nor does the silk scarf,
lofted by wind,
understand the nature
 
of the rise and fall of things—
the crack and shatter
of branches and buildings.
 
Houseplants are not grateful
for the heat they receive from
the furnace in the basement
 
just as ice crystals cannot
imagine how they will
eventually dissolve.
 
Mud is ignorant of the elements
of earth and water until they unite
as a puddle or a tunnel
 
for the badger, who knows nothing
of the flight of birds
with their soft, blue feathers.
 
The bow is not oblivious
to the cello strings—only
to what they will sing.


From Inside the Curtained Cage (forthcoming).
Used here with permission.