With the first awareness of morning
I sense the kind of clarity elusive
at other times of day.
She is a singular breath, formless,
offering insight into the endlessness
of something pure.
Yet she moves away as thoughts come:
those dissenting armies that tramp in
to involve me in the containment of opposites.
She will not be held in place by argument.
I long for her when she leaves.
My intention is to attend to her when I’m able.
To be the gardener who loves the flower.
That she might touch me when she will
That she might find me, often
In the gentleness of contemplation.