Thursday Poem - Daily

These shriveled seeds we plant,

corn kernel, dried bean,

poke into loosened soil,

cover over with measured fingertips

These T-shirts we fold into

perfect white squares

These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips

This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl

This bed whose covers I straighten

smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown

blanket and nothing hangs out

This envelope I address

so the name balances like a cloud

in the center of sky

This page I type and retype

This table I dust till the scarred wood shines

This bundle of clothes I wash and hang

and wash again like flags we share, a

a country so close no one needs to name it

The days are nouns: touch them

The hands are churches that

worship the world.

Naomi Shihab Nye,
(from The Words Under the Words: Selected Poems)