His Morning Meditations

My father in this lonely room of prayer

listens at the window

in the little house of his own dreams.

He has come a long way just to listen,

over seas and sorrow, through the narrow gate

of his deliverance.

And he dwells here now,

beyond the valley and the shadow, too,

in silence mustered day by dawn.

It has come to this sweet isolation

in the eye of God, the earliest of mornings

in his chambered skull, this frost of thought.