LORD,

Your morning,

So starved for conversation,

So eager to bare her hearts to me

In her tongues of spilling milk and sibilant kettle

In the long, low patience of dust turning to dust

As it waits and waits for a word with me,

As it waits for a mote of my kind attention 

In the wild generosity of first light 

Brushing my eyes that I took for blind

Rousing sleepers whom I took for dead

Your morning

Stands again upon my threshold. 

Bids me open a crack 

My heart in hiding,

Hush a bit 

Mind’s cunning calculations

Listen to her

Listening  to You.

8 July 2008