Eve Naming the Birds, by William Blake
"In Bahia, Brazil, April 1832. Sublime devotion the prevalent feeling...
Twiners entwining twiners. Tresses like hair. Beautiful Lepidoptera.
Silence. Hosanna!" ~Charles Darwin, Journals
You, my dear, are not a secret.
Don't wait to be discovered.
God has already shouted your name
to all the planets and stars, crying,
"Look what I did not create,
so that she could make herself!"
Your light isn't sealed in a crock of humility,
a gesture of religion, an asana slathered
in scented yoga gel.
You are not the Platonic shadow
of a glossy image from the vogue
of a higher world.
You are the incomparable body
whom earth and water, fire and wind
feel drawn to imitate by dancing.
Green spuds and nipples quiver
from the lenient soil
at the faintest thunder of your aimless
barefoot wandering. Birds sing not
to wake you, but because you are awake.
Why don't you slip out of all seven veils
into something more comfortable:
the earth, that first pure nakedness
at whom stars tremble?