This morning
staggers out of bed,
finds a seat
under a dead tree
on the back porch,
waits for God
to talk to him again.
So exquisitely hypnotic—
this rising sun,
that rooster crowing,
this enmeshment with a
brighter more convincing dream
until it seems
quite real
for every purpose
under heaven.
When
senses eyes hearts ears
skin mind mouth nose
witness open wide enough
we see
a truer purpose
shining here
so bright we watch
the ground disappear.
Sparrows arc through the air
below me sunlight shining
through wings
from the closest western star.
I wonder what they
really are.
They look more like angels
than any birds I’ve
ever seen.
I wonder what this
really means.
Of all the bubbling dreams,
there’s not a single one but seems
to be,
and all the while you’re here
with me—
every one of you,
awake
or yet to rise.
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