Praise reaches a certain pitch
as the cicadas start rhyming
with the slow guitar and all
your splashing as you return to swim
and once more I remember
the cloak and what it is
to be here, just as it is
clear that all this stuff
is another fine way
to live in time,
though we never left,
never lost what simply is
blooming all around us
in purple and pink
beneath the slow granite peaks,
all pointing at equanimity,
a gradual flow to highest point
and slow grind back to deep ocean,
all unified, each difference
adding its hue to the vast blue
tapestry we've been weaving
with all this life, empty at last
of our own views, now just the vow
to steward one whole related set
with gentle hospitality for any
who have not yet heard this
particular pitch of praise.