Messages at Dawn


You can listen
or you can scream back
when that baby's hum of gold,
that paper-lantern sun,
pries open the
eyes of the world.


You want to sleep,
but then you'll miss it:

those first and flawless
sculptures of light.  


But what artist is this
that demands
a captive audience,
who splashes wildly
upon the black linen
where your brighter self
cuddled, warm and endless,
since you last closed
your eyes in perfect trust?


And every time your precious
sun crawls out from behind
the trees,
the earth becomes a glittering,
living creature
painted lavishly by a
Universe that doesn't hold


It gives of itself,
its whole self,
with the zeal of a martyr
and requires, not death,
but awakening.


And every day it's
something new:
brighter flutes for the
another dusting of finely-ground
sky that tumbles like
those runaway dreams
through the branches;

leaves that went to sleep as
and woke up blooming
in midair:


it's all about giving
and leaving your
impossibilities in the bed
where you slept
and getting to know
this freedom . . .


the walls that
never were.


Wake up now . . .
raise the curtain on your
preening, strutting
imitation of death.

The day is ready and willing
to teach you
how to live.  


by Patricia Joan Jones

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