In the hushed quiet of thought
far deeper than the bubbling of day
and beyond the passing of diminutive thoughts
about oneself in all that it is to be oneself:
the pain of not letting go
the drudgery of a word spoken out of place,
in the dead winter of one’s loves
and farther still in the fibs held by bones.
There stands the tenderness of dawn
again, an amen.
So are the days which mark a path
wrought with wonder.
As if Christ himself at table to dine,
pulls another chair
pours another wine
offers his own
for your bread that never arrived.
There, gratitude wombs prayers recalled
to seed again the heart covered.
Come awake, softly whispered.