Morning Notebook
Is as much yours as it is mine.
I am only the teller of it,
The singer, the diligent scribe.
There is not one thing
I have done or read or heard
That you have not already
Witnessed, desired, or learned.
Last night, summer let herself in
Through my open window,
A breath of grass and upturned soil
Yearning for touch, for conversation.
She entered my dream as a child
Yields to her own magical world
And absorbs its meaning
With effortless comprehension.
When I awoke before dawn,
I felt as if the convening stars
Had rustled their papers in my favor:
See how he labors, see how proudly
He wears his insignificant bond,
Let his fruit be sweet and good.
Even now, I could be in my grave
Without knowing, deaf to voices above
And to trees whispering my name,
Yet able to comfort those in need.
My pale bones could be a memory
Dangling by one last thread,
A reminder of something heard,
Or the key to something said.
Fear not the silence in this room.
If we hold out our hands, we will know
The distance between us was only imagined.
July 15, 2005
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