The Pause
It is barely light;
the coffee cup abandoned last night
is half full of shadows.
Through the window
an armada of geese
rows across a silent movie.
A shallow doorstep of time
has pardoned this moment
of all past crimes.
The world
(that prismatic spinning ghost)
has not washed its eyes yet,
the kitchen clock still dreams.
The coming day will sneak through
a mousehole of possibility
garbed in new clothes,
a look so unlikely
that you may not see it arrive.
You have to show up in this pause,
to know when that river of you
is flowing and rising,
then you can ride the wake
of the travelling geese
while making fresh coffee.
Hear the wild sky singing
under journeying wings.
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