Look around and look beneath your feet.

Look around. This spectacle shines with silly signs of remarkability—that stalk of green onion was bought at Groceries R Us, eaten down to its stump, soaked in water then grew and grew again. Now behold as it pierces the sky with its finger and fingers with its roots the heart of the dirt.

Some brown bird just graced the grass; she is a single point at the intersection of two infinite time lines between the vertical, spiritual realm and the horizontal plane of the soul. Now she lights onto the fence, slat upon slat of once-pine-forest, lathed and honed and stripped and nailed by many hands, all so I won’t have to watch my neighbor watch what he watches in his back yard or watch me watching the morning show in mine. He has a large screen TV. My entertainment, the zinnias and roses. I cut them and they come again. They are the ads on every channel I turn to. Like the sucker that I am, I shell out the money to buy the faith they’re selling in its many splendid colors.

The compost heap’s another ridiculous miracle, the year’s stratified archaeology of coffee cups and paper envelopes that the worms will eat away. Not to mention avocados and banana peels. You’d think I’d be a walking bowl of guacamole, a banana bread with arms, so fertilized is the ground underneath my feet with their potassium and folate and anti-oxidants.

And egg shells. This is how birds fortify their own rebirths.

Is God upcycling me??

I could have been Her old and favorite sweater, pair of jeans, worn soft just to Her liking and She wants to see what She can make of me with a glue stick and some glitter. Cross out some. Lots. Lots and lots of glitter.

My yard, my life, my art: collages, mosaics, memory quilts and word salads of language—made poetry, story, song. My mind is a thrift store shelf, full of cast-offs and mismatches, chipped a little, rough around the edges, been around the world. But not broken. Or if broken, beautiful.

Buy me, God. I’m predestined for a new and purposeful beginning. For 50¢ or so, you can repaint the canvas of me. A couple of dollars could buy you a mixed bag of poetry and bad metaphors but what else are you gonna spend your fountain-bottom pennies on, a cup of coffee?

Make sure your cup, then, is biodegradable. Throw it on my pile.