It is the feel of the right knife

in the hand. It is the slice

of tomato, the crush of garlic.

It is fat sizzling in the pan.

It is the pink of a petal

caught in the rake, drawn

into the pile on the walk.

It is the first page of a book,

the first chords of an old song.

It is seeing birds soaring

over the canyon, the bay beyond.

It is the line from a brush

across a white canvas. It is

the soiled red sun at evening

through the pines. It is finch

chat, rain against the window.

It is you beside me, resting.

It is you.