The Waiting Room

A few hours before dawn, owls swoop into nothingness. Unlike moon-bound gazers, they face their hunger elsewhere. Laundry hangs cold on the line – a silent presence evoking the satisfaction of work as reward. Affectionate tip-toeing around pines in the dark does not change the fact that we are beasts among these princes. There is nothing to do in dawn's waiting room. Maybe that's what I love about it so much.

Later, laughing birdsong. Small rabbits testing new boundaries. Tulips beginning to let go. I'm no longer grasping for infinity. What is carried in the hollows of my clavicle can no longer be emptied.

Lily of the Valley, Apollo's gift to the world, infuses its fragrance with lilac, primrose and the crisp cusp of morning. It reminds me of summer at the lake and swimming until the water consumed me whole. Yet also, it reminds me of leaving the taste of the lake I know. Sadness and joy; it is both things and I accept that . . . like the way Lily of the Valley smells of heaven, yet could kill you.

Maples throw down their winged seeds and violets are everywhere. Everywhere. Purple as a psychological creation.

As the day passes, my head begins to ache to the beat of humanity. My mind drifts backward or forward to another quiet chance at first light — the time when I can hear my own pulse — the moments when I can feel us embodying the love of God/ess together. That is not now. Instead, I anchor back into the fledgling mind and reopen unto the wonder of now.

This bright nowhere.

This grand sweeping view.