the mist still lingers on the lawn:
the shortening shade, like Avalon,
seeks wisps of cloud to linger on
but soon surrenders, and is gone.
the world, by inches, cracks its eyes:
and in the place of lullabies
begins to sound the hue and cry,
its hustle-bustle of disguise.
the sweet and tender touch of light
begins the slow ascent of sight
and sends to shadows, warm and bright,
the last reminders of the night.
again, I hear the sigh
of breathing, gentle and nearby,
and thank the earth and sea and sky
for life and love and you and I.
05 JAN 2017
Below the quiet hum the waking world makes
as earth turns slowly sun-ward each new day,
before the civil bustle starts in earnest
and clutters the ear’s palette with its play,
in those few silent moments, as I lay still
beside her sleeping form, just listening
in awe to the low murmur of her breathing,
I hear the universe begin and end.
Not much, nor of much weight, these precious seconds;
and yet, to me their worth is beyond price:
what mere religion claims to be worth worship,
what lesser dreams enshrine as paradise.
05 NOV 2010
Arise, new day, your way much like the last,
one footstep forward further from the past;
and in your wake leave only settling dust
that would try to preserve because it must,
or else subside to shadows that soon fade
as from their brittle bones new day is made.
Arise, new day, your time has surely come!
Your heartbeat echoes last night’s funeral drum,
and pulses with the force of health and light
along the pale horizon, left to right.
Arise, new day, waste not a single breath;
lest you, too, slip complacent into death.
12 DEC 2008
That morning comes again is no surprise;
the laws of physics have not been withheld,
nor has the motion of the planets, if
those laws are merely whims, been held at bay.
No vengeful demons or vain deities
have paused the world in darkness for their play.
No, the edge of space where I sit has again
been turned and tilted to its burning star;
while elsewhere on the globe, lights flicker out
and someone borrows my fear of the night
(which is not trepidation of mere dark,
but rather, the unknown outside the cave
[or box, as we prefer to call it now,
since we are civilized a thousand-fold]
that waits for us, like some divine pop quiz
on that damned chapter we forgot to read).
So, morning comes again; and every time,
despite all evidence to prove it will,
and though our own experience and sense
would tend to ease our worry on this tack,
yet we stand dumb still, starstruck at the sight,
in shock that our blind faith
caused it to be.
04 AUG 2006
Before the first ray of morning sun comes
over the muttering lips of the sleeping world
(like the last soft warm breath of a restful sleep
is released from the tight grasp of that little death)
and there are not yet schedules to be met,
children to be shuffled off sullenly to school,
arrangements to be made, broken and remade,
the drudgery of household chores still untackled,
I listen in that dark and peaceful lull
to the gentle sound of her breathing next to me,
warm and serene under the sheets and blankets,
cocooned like a butterfly, just dreaming of flight.
31 MAR 2004