Tuesday Poem

The Hidden Singer

The gods are less
for their love of praise.
Above and below them all
is a spirit that needs
nothing but its own
its health and ours.
It has made all things
by dividing itself.
It will be whole again.
To its joy we come
together—the seer
and the seen, the eater
and the eaten, the lover
and the loved.
In our joining it knows
itself. It is with us then,
not as the gods
whose names crest
in unearthly fire,
but as the little bird
hidden in the leaves
who sings quietly
and waits
and sings.

by Wendell Berry
from The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry;
Counterpoit Press, 1998