I sought the song of the body: damp skin in the hollow of the shoulder, just under the collarbone; the fountain of vision at the base of the neck; a river, deep in the belly; or mist, melting on the tongue. [Chorus] What is profit but gratitude, and reward but the broken places mended? Awareness feeds on light, and blossoms into time. The ruffles of time are the fabric of mountains, tree trunks, eggshells. The cat, lying on fields of me, brings his secret gift, the sharp sudden scent of hot grass and dirt— was I there before, a treefrog pulsing in shadow? [Chorus] What is profit but gratitude, and reward but the broken places mended? What people want to steal is the hint of a smile, steady as a lantern, suggesting caverns of laughter heartfelt, treasure beyond belief. [Coda] Because I know before I go there is more to being human than shrinking into dust.
