Up comes the Sun,
spooning great gobs of yellow light
into the mouth of the morning,
that swallows it greedily.
Shadows stand up out of the dullness,
begin to draw themselves into their objects,
but in ho hurry.
Birds scatter a confetti of songs.
And what’s this? I rise
from the grave-clothes of my bed, alive,
the day pouring into me
like sun into the meadow.
I am the opening bars of a song
love is just now improvising,
spilling out of me, who will sing,
if I let it, all day long.
I will let it.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net
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