In the soft and quiet amplitude of dawn,
I wait beside a window.
Not sleeping well these days,
I wake in wonder
as the sun rims red the east-view hills;
cacophony begins with birds
and thoughts.
I say aloud. So listPull down thy vanity,
I say aloud. So listening begins.
A voice starts low,
not mine so much as nothing in itself,
and which a holy man I met one day
called God, the not-self rising, rinsed by dawn,
almost laid bare.
Uncovered and alert,
I love whatever I can almost hear, a longing
satisfied in song and skin:
like something that I have in my possession
yet I still desire,
a wish to own what is mine already.