One short, measly hour,
not a special one, just any old
hour, look around and ask,

“What would my life be
without this thing? Without
that thing? Or that one?”

Without the tree shading
the window, without the window,
without the kitchen sink

you’re standing behind,
without the water running cool
and clear on your hands,

without the knife in your hands
that has just cut fresh corn
off the cob that you’ve put

into a bowl for a summer salad,
without the small oval tomatoes
growing on the searching vines

in the back yard, five of them,
lycopene red, on the granite counter
next to you, resting,

ready when you’re ready, in this
ordinary hour, this everyday minute,
this extraordinary moment.