June 28, 2006

Mysticism of morning

Dawn once a time of poets and prayer

as the gestalt of night shatters into protean

and multifarious forms of day:

for years I rose predawn to hear…

to listen for signs of God…

alone my soul in silence waits

from whence cometh my help…?

and hear the majestic choir of dawn

in birdsong and rain spatter.

Patience, I’ve come to know,

grace of the weak.

Too soon old…too late wise,

the proverb

now taken to heart as I convert late

and gray, god was born

stonedeaf…as silent

as the ceiling, the counterpoint

of mornings’ dawns.

Truth, goodness, beauty,

and holiness of being

are lodged in this: the hierarchy

of regard per omnia saecula saeculurum.