for the Love of an Hourglass

THE BEGINNINGS

For the Self who never believed

THE BEGINNINGS

Judge them By Poetry

See her twisting through form to form through your days and nights; from the lighthouse for truth, it rolls in the waves of the sky, your head, and transmits. Such words uttered themselves in the quiet hours of the morning when the page is waiting and the pen warming in my hand and all the world was asleep:

"Judge them by the poetry they inspire you to write."

And so we shall.

Stolen hours

the sun has not yet completed her cycle

these are my favourite hours

this moment

when all the birds wake in synchronicity and sing

as if to say

look with fresh eyes

hear with fresh ears

i am comforted to know each is in its own home

and how many homes are made so close to where i sleep

the air holds a new clarity

it has not yet been corrupted

by the energy of the day

it sits in between the notes of the birdsong quietly in wait

it lingers in the moments between the tings of my teacup as i stir

it scolds the closing of the door with a compassionate heaviness in the air

every sound i make is a tidal wave in the peace

every sound i hear is at its clearest and most transcendent

the sky lightens infinitesimally with each passing moment and i am aware of them all

i mourn with the knowledge that this will soon be tainted with the bustle of people waking

cars blundering along frozen tarmac

towards meaningless jobs

wasted time

it is at dawn i feel most whole

knowing i am awake fresh and can see with the birds eye view

i can see these stolen hours were gifted to me when my eyes opened and would not be closed

this morning and all the 4ams that i have shaken by the hand and embraced

now the clouds are my blanket

now the sun is my breakfast in bed

now the birdsong is my unending new day

captured between the phrases of silence

Birthdays

We were born in meditation,