Dark Thirty

Time stops in the dark.

Before dawn, it yawns and stretches.

Putters.

Lingers.

Moseys.

Puts on coffee.

And sits.

Waits.

Makes room.

I remember endless time

before clocks and counting,

when the first day of school and the last

stretched out like Highway 16,

Macon to Savannah.

Nowyearscram instead of c r a w l .

Jumbled together like sHeLteRdoGs ,

they clamor, unfavored.

Unsavored.

I want those I love to sleep deep

and wait while I

strive alive,

until I’m whole and done.

Projects finished.

A life crafted.

Perfected.

I’m ready to begin,

seeing the end.

Before dawn, in the dark, dew descends.

The Morning Womb receives me,

conceives, believes me.

I’m stilled,

refilled.

Honey sweet.

Those minutes in the dark

I’m outside the race,

inside sacred space.

Held, I meld and mold,

never old.

Undoing, renewing,

I can quit

and sit

in The Holy Place.

And then comes the push–

that daily rebirth-and-run

with the sun.