What Matters, Then?

What matters is the light streaming in through the kitchen window
The spatula and the spoon standing tall and straight as soldiers,
Barely resting on the mouth of the glass jar that holds them up;

The yellow wall, the bulletin board with its lovely
Inconsequentials -- impressionistic onions, photos of cabinets;
The table, tea station, and prim, expectant jars of unopened jam --
These things matter.

The faintly discernable hum of the power station across the street,
This also matters, along with the once-in-a-while chirps of birds.
The weairness in my body, this heaviness in my legs, the dirt
Under my nails - all of it matters.

The soft voice that whispers "Here I am,"
The quickening of my heart, and the falling,
Tingling answer -- "Hello again, love" --
That wells up inside of me; these are indispensable.