O day—if I could cup my hands and drink of you,
And make this shining wonder be
A part of me!
O day! O day!
You lift and sway your colors on the sky
Till I am crushed with beauty. Why is there
More of reeling sunlit air
Than I can breathe? Why is there sound
In silence? Why is a singing wound
About each hour?
And perfume when there is no flower?
O day! O Day! How may I press
Nearer to loveliness?

^{As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles.
—Walt Whitman} 

 ^{en memoria William Rashall Sinkin, 1913–2014} 

Whitman, you once told me, is democracy on the page, messy 
and imperfect as we are in real life, which gave you hope 

that we would one day make real life true democracy, ripe blossom,
pollen dusting every moment and person, each scampering mote of light. 

This is why as you lay dying, I read “I Hear America Singing”
and knew you heard every word and could feel my hand on yours 

though you were already moving toward other miracles than this life.
A sunflower followed your motion and a yellow dog stood guard. 

You, who lived the notion that the sun belongs to each and every one,
beggars, dreamers, kings, all. You who believed banks could have hearts, 

for god’s sake! You have left it to us, messy and imperfect
as we are and will be, to keep to the work side by side 

and as long as it takes, all the while singing of miracles
just as Whitman and you taught us to do. Meanwhile, you 

were last seen wearing blue-plaid pajamas, a contrasting
blue-plaid bow tie, and surrounded by hummingbirds. 

Hummingbirds leave Texas in early February, migrating north
to make new lives. The angle of the sun tells them precisely when 

to take their leave. They arrive thousands of miles away
in mid-May, about the time of your birthday. A sunflower 

follows your motion. The yellow dog stands guard.