Hence Smitten

This squirrel digs my grave and marks it 
with an acorn. Years from now, 
when he’s forgotten all about me, 

a large tree will grow in my place. There might 
be something amiss about thanking a flower 
the way I’d thank a person who gave me a song 

or a leftover pickle, but I don’t know 
what to call the thing I want most to thank. 
To stand forever in awe of the world 

like a tadpole in a sink full of dishes. 
To take vocal lessons and grow turnips 
on a hill, to learn to praise, though 

to imagine some One to Whom 
the Praises Go is probably a mistake – 
before receiving the tablets, Moses 

covers his eyes, lest the Transcendent 
smite him down, even though 
the second definition of smite is 

to fall madly in love (hence smitten),
which offers the delightful possibility     
of making eye contact with one’s Smiter,

of kissing said Smiter on the lips, or falling 
asleep right on the Smiter’s breathing chest 
and cooking in the morning two yellow eggs.
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