Yesterday closed rather too hastily for my purposes, and
Night seemed to bolt through its black brackets to reward her,
Leaving me with less than forty winks on which to recharge.
And so today I start bleary-eyed and wobbly, up the sloping alley
half sure that Dawn’s arms are willing to receive me, and
that if I implore her to let me lay therein,
on fluffy clouds, a most restful sleep I’d fetch.
She does not.
She wisely flings them out to the world instead,
And offers me only the freshness of a breeze.
It grazes my cheek, like a soft fingertip
activating, nerve by nerve, my senses.
But it’s unsteady and noisy within,
Where, if quiet, a fine touch triggers
the sweetest dreams to unfold.
So seconds elapse before I discern life’s medley ringing out.
And as it plays, the sun is not the usual orb lifting above Our Saviour,
but tints of pink, ribboned through ripples of soft, white clouds,
Ribbons that soothe my passing and tempt me to sermonize
To call up the church’s body from the darkness,
so that not only its copper dome is glorified.
But so divided it stands alone,
As I pass alone,
Feeling all but lonely,
for a million souls are in audience with mine.
We are separated by mounds of snow covering the land
and by the cold gusts of wind that propel us to warmth,
But we are united in the energy that enfolds and lifts us.
And together we abide in the solace of a rosy view,
Cradled high in loving arms, them dreaming as vividly as I.