The Day the World is Born by Shelby Handler

This morning, dew chandeliers every smiling blade
of grass, on every sleeping lawn and fallowed field.

This has already happened every morning for the entire
past year. And probably every dawn of every year before 

that. How long have water molecules clung to each other
like sequins sewn into silk? Whether we noticed them

or not. Most miracles do not formally belong
to a congregation. This morning, the curtain is bandage-thin

between the worlds. Once, there was nothing
but heaven. Once, the shimmering void was

unavoidable. This morning, heaven remembers
the earth, remembers us. Heaven gave us everything:

roses, dimples, salt, wetness, wool, 
mothers, butter, murder. We share a home with every wound

and every shelter that has grazed our failing
hands. Our hands cannot carry what we need

to become. This year, if we want to transform,
we will drop everything now. We will wield

the emptiness that knows only of its endlessness.
We will count the glitters of dew as they leave

each other, becoming separate once again.
Here is the way to start again: let heaven

slither in through the holes this year
left in you. Everything you’ve lost is enough

space for your wholeness to return into. Every day
is someone’s birthday. Today is everything’s 

birth day. We’re all here together: holding our breath 
in the delivery room. We’re tugging at the curtain,

eager to catch it all in our tired and wild arms.