Daily

These shriveled seeds we plant, 

corn kernel, dried bean, 

poke into loosened soil, 

cover over with measured fingertips 

These T-shirts we fold 

into perfect white squares 

These tortillas we slice and fry to crisp strips 

This rich egg scrambled in a gray clay bowl 

This bed whose covers I straighten 

smoothing edges till blue quilt fits brown 

blanket 

and nothing hangs out

This envelope I address 

so the name balances like a cloud 

in the center of sky

This page I type and retype 

This table I dust till the scarred wood shines 

This bundle of clothes I wash and hang 

and wash again 

like flags we share, a country so close 

no one needs to name it 

The days are nouns: touch them 

The hands are churches that worship the world

--Naomi Shihab Nye (1952- ), Palestinian-American poet, from Words Under Words: Selected Poems, 1995