A Sunrise Ruby

There are many gifts in this day,
one of the ones where I can see them sharp,
like stars on a night deep in the desert
canyon walls blocking any light
that might be coming from nowhere:

My first thought in the morning, upon waking from dreams
gently watched over by the full moon: "Thank you for another day of living,"
the self chosen mind speak.

My nephew's sweet and sticky morning kisses and then the donning of a gift,
black cape and mask, engendering him with an infinite amount of super powers,
and which he wears right now,
carrying dinosaurs through the house on a string in preparation so they won't
float away on the river trip
he and his father will be on all weekend.

The call of the "wild" peacock that really does roam this neighborhood
and the mighty male perched on a garage roof,
long sweeping tail glorious in the morning light,
headdress against the backdrop of red rim rock.

The quiet hour of lunch when I come home from the wood shop
smelling of the dust of tamarisk, sycamore, elm, honey locust,
black walnut, and cherry,
each one a special spirit,
and my sister is there
and we talk about the reminder to be slow,
no matter what society or america or our upbringing or ambition
or crazy passion says,  (though I do love it so, in moderation)
and I read one of my favorite poems, The Sunrise Ruby, out loud
in the echo-y kitchen on this cloudy day.

"Do you love me or yourself more?
    Really, tell the absolute truth."

The setting sun and the smell of lilacs and podcasts of ideas and baby spoons and singing
and
a million
billion
other things
with
every
single
breath.

"There is nothing left of me.
    I’m like a ruby held up to the sunrise.
    Is it still a stone, or a world
    made of redness? It has no resistance
    to sunlight."