Sunday, December 4, 2011

Ancestral Morning

Sit with my mug where the ground cuts suddenly to a cliff, and traction gives way to openness. Sit with my mug at the edge of my present tense, in the folding chair, dirt grating as I shift, a steady hand stained with dirt and coffee. Dawn, there is nothing to say in the beginning or the end. The morning flows and I drink, until the beginning has reached the end, and again I am silent in the old sun.