PROSE POEM
Early morning is sacred time. Time to look far into the lightening horizon, calmly searching for signs inscribed in the skies. Time to look heavenward, there where the moon still sits high upon her throne, sharing space with the fiery sun creeping up through the edge of the turning earth.
Early morning is being time. Time to just sit and be, being still, listening to the birds chirping, listening to the heart beating, listening in on the stream of first thoughts, stolen from the underground of sleep and dreams, from the night just past as it shades into the new day.
Moments to savor the slow turning of night past into present day. Morning watch, tuned to the changing hues of cloud and sky, turning violet, to purple, purple to lilac, lilac to peach, peach to orange. From silk black to all the shades in between, finally to arrive at the blue mantle that carries with it…sun and light, bright and white
Morning.
I salute the four directions from the center of myself. Heaven above. Earth below. Sun to the East. Moon to the West. I look to the horizon across where birds circle in joyful movement and planes take off for destinations unknown. I feel the morning dew, soft and cool on my skin cascading around me. Hear the wind whistling through bamboo leaves.
Morning.
Time to feel all that is well and all that awaits you in the day to come will be well.
