Morning
Friday May 1, 2009
Morning still
a liquid inkwell
you wake,
one foot in the ocean of sleep
where stories
whirled like golden
epics on the screen within,
or perhaps bloody horrors,
or rhapsodies of lovers
deeply intertwined. Juxtapositions
of the unexpected--
children inside a tree
a white robed wizard in the forest
a prehistoric bird
becoming a child.
But now you have one foot
in this world of make
and do and have-to and habit.
There may be sparrows sleeping
tucked into branches
beside the house,
or a cat curled by the door,
stomach rising and falling,
a scent of jasmine
wafting through the kitchen window,
and you are thinking of what is to come
on this day, what was yesterday
stretching over the threshold
onto this perfect blank
parchment of today.
Before it all spills over,
this pail of expectation
filled with the predicted and ordinary,
be still.
Behold, that gossamer thread
reaching across the silence,
catching the merest reflection of last night's
moonlight, disturbed by anything at all,
motion for its own sake—even
the inward churning of thoughts unbidden.
Be still.
Assume this day
is a brand new gift,
an offering to the holiness
sleeping still inside you.
Accept it as the most delicate wafer
of possibility placed on your tongue
by the most loving hand.
Let your eyes adjust to the half-light
of before-light. Find
that tender thread stretching across
the chasm of impossibility,
waiting to catch the improbable,
which it is strong enough--
even engineered, to hold.
It may be a glimpse of anything,
Persephone on her throne,
buffalo grazing on the plains,
a native shaman come
to ask you a question,
or to offer to heal you
if you will only listen
or to give you a gift
that will change you forever.
Marlane Agriesti Miriello
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