Wisdom may not belong to one man, one person...
although it seems to spring whole from their head like Athena,
seems to be a gift, a long-spun collection of thread snippets
twisted together over years into a skein, on into a sleeve or a cowl
until they coalesce into a garment of benign protection.
It grows but does no harm.
What we may have thought was stunted and scorched,
beyond regeneration, plucked into submission and
so acutely colored as to be beyond camouflage,
that there is no way we might have missed the reemergence
for it would stand out like a goose among swans,
reasserts its life nevertheless,
never can we say what is gone, what is dead...
we have no power over the destruction of energy, or matter,
only a responsibility,
to weed, to hoe, to cherish.
After that it is out of our hands.
With the wisdom I have knitted in these years, I can say
welcome April Fools, you always have a home here,
gather on my porch and share my coat.