All We Know Is to Give

the red toenail polish flashing on the woman’s happy toes,
her sandals showing them off
the man’s cell phone, living to connect him to others,
his shoulder and neck bent toward each other
holding it in place so his hands can get his money,
which goes wherever he wants to send it, willingly,
never having much of a home
the little boy’s cute cute butt, making me smile
cradled in his father’s kindly forearms
as they get face to face

this round granite slab polished into a tabletop
supporting many arms, cups, books, and scones,
and patiently living in the Sierras til it was sliced
away from its family to come to my town,
to show its green and black flecks
so beautifully and continually

this pen, this hand with fingers
that know how to press and shape letterforms
and convey motives from this brain, through this neck,
shoulder, arm, and wrist
onto this waiting paper that came from a tree who grew up in Oregon
and died after a not-long-enough life
so I could put my thoughts, these ephemeral things,
into this world that so loves itself
that all it knows to do is give

www.penneypeirce.com