There are places in you

Where thousands of bright, tiny flowers

Open each morning to the sun

In meadows as vast as the sky.

There is nothing more innocent
than the still-unformed creature I find beneath soil,
neither of us knowing what it will become
in the abundance of the planet.

and wait there 
patiently, 
until the song 
that is your life 
falls into your own cupped hands 

Have you every heard the singing of the stars? The frogs have. "Frog Singing" by Jeannette Armstrong.

You had to have
been there to know such joy,
fear intermingled, my limbs
tingling: ancient, mute.

Let the ash turn to gold now, Mother,
For the children of the future.

The well rising without sound,
the spring on a hillside,
the plowshare brimming through deep ground
everywhere in the field—