The whisper starts here, a silken,
snow-laden breeze to beg the branches
dance away. Against the first light stand
gently tremoring silhouettes. They are dead
soybeans, encased in ice but no longer silence.
The whisper is a quiet hum now.
It is everywhere and only here at once
as the darkness prepares its farewell.
It forces shadows across the gravel roads
and awakens the indignant chorale of birds.
I hear it again, the invitation fully formed
as I inhale the choking, startling morning air:
a call to prayer, a glissade of the sun’s tender
pink discovering everything again. Caressing.
Illuminating. Casting out darkness, and fear.