Glory

The date and time on a digital clock sings me a sotto voce halleluiah as I roll over on the surf of a shoaling shore. This is how a poem arrives, In a leaky boat loaded with refugees all arriving at once. Some refuse to shout out, some clamor for attention. The voices come nearer. I am multilingual in a non-vocal way. When the birds sing out, the sky will be born again, and the Maker will make coffee, then write something with my hand.