Wake

 

Wake in the whisperless prayer of listening. Out in the blossoming plum a sparrow breaks her vigil to praise sunbeams unborn, unfallen. April morning mind hollow, free from yesterday. This could be the last morning, a crack in the glass of singing. What would you do? Go barefoot into the garden. Recognize the gardener by his garment of silence. When you touch the hem of his shadow, and he demurs, don’t believe his gesture: cling! Yearning turns darkness bright. That which bruises must be alive. Secret wine from his gashes. Ease out of pain into something more fragrant, the swollen lily of the present moment, exposing her cup of golden dust. Now the God in the sparrow's heart sees you. On tremulous strings the music rises to your throat from a throbbing hollow in your rib cage. No words, only the instrument of your body, floating on its river of distant stars. What would the stars say? What would your lyric be if your breath turned to sod, and all you had was a voice? "I love, therefore I Am."