Gnosis

I know a secret.

The green growing grass shares it;
I can tell by the way that it springs up anew
each year from its own hidden seed.

My drowsing cat reveals,
through his quiet purrs,
that he knows it too.

My daughter knows it also,
as intimated by her sigh
as she curls in my lap.

I cannot tell you the secret:
words fly from it like swallows from a thresher,
like butterflies from a running child.

As mute as a chick sleeping in its egg,
I cannot say what I know or how I know;
I just gnow.