The cottonwood down dances like the dervish

Swirling in the dusty desert wind,

Soft as the lining of the sparrow’s nest,

White as snow falling from the storehouse of heaven.

He who makes the down to soar by the breath of His voice

Softly calls.

He eye is on the twiggy construction.

He counts the whirling hairs on the head of the dervish.

He opens the storehouse graciously for the just and the unjust.

He who made the down

Summons His beloved.

Come to me, all you who labor.

I will be your home.