He leaves the house before dawn
to stand out under the moon and
that single morning star,
listening to everything;
a torrent within, outside,
the distant northbound train, the dogs
in the hills serenading the end of night, the
interstate humming. An owl speaks of the
first world in the far cottonwood.
The man is neither pure nor holy
but carries a sense that some
that joins with him
is yet held in pure holiness.
He lifts words up to first light,
a simple request to live well with
longing as it lingers. He hears
a quiet invitation to
step into himself, best he can,
into the more gentle demeanor
of moons and stars.
He feels the strength to live with feelings he
cannot resolve. He purposes to
follow love where it leads
and live a simpler life of waiting for all that
he desires to come to him
in its time and
if it chooses, to
drain him of his furies.
The days are lonely in this season,
well worth the learning