Where, where does the dawn go when it wants to hide
itself from earth? Leaves outside my window
shudder, press their thin bodies against
the pane. The light illuminates their veins, bloodless.
Lodged somewhere in my spirit are feelings
of soot and sullied second chances. I feel
no new mercies this morning, and my body is heavy,
heavy against gravity, as though tethered
to my bed. I want to muster strength to stand,
to cup holy water in my dry palms,
to pool it up like so much rainwater,
to soothe the parched ground I have become. I want
to be led like an innocent lamb by still waters. I
want to open my eyes, unclothing my vision to
behold a reality of God’s promises afresh. I want to
be as whole as I was made to be, again.
When it wants to try again—when, when does the dawn
come back? The sky inhales, and I hear it spread, laked
out, in the song of a whippoorwill. Life rolls in with
oars of light to sever cloud from cloud, nearer now than
darkness has ever been. I inhale, too. The birds herald
unwrapped graces: whippoor—
This new day, it has given itself to me. It bursts out,
naked life, a bright aubade. I exhale—will, will, will.