On Blessing

Centuries ago, it was believed
that something could be made holy

by singeing it with fire, letting 
its blood drip into a cup to offer

on an altar with prayers and song.
A blessing once meant a marking,

the hand touched to the wound 
to gentle its turn toward grace. 

Under the well which gives water, 
tunnels deep in the earth snake 

through thorny bramble and rock, 
seeking the root of things. Without 

having known what it’s like to fumble 
through darkness, would the pearl-

light of morning feel less of an 
astonishment? Bodies that bore 

a hundred hurts, that carved of 
themselves an offering. A warbler 

balances on the tip of a branch, 
its weight barely enough to break it.