As in mango season, where seeds and bones
confuse themselves anew. Every morning angling
the urn, parallel to sunlight, to see what we’ve collected.
Leaves, on the rain that brought them there, and dirt. So,
empty. Or, the everyday. Or, the natural.
Had the earth not slanted
off the face of a wide-eyed sunbird.
Revealing the dirt to be his bed.
The rain, his tears. The leaves,
his protective children.
This was their plan all along. To gather
what was important. To self-contain. To refuse the
designation empty. And the sunbird, steeped in this ritual,
contemplating the settling soil, the still water, the grieving leaves.