There are viscous moments
pouring down over these days
as if the thick substance of time
was emptied out onto our lives
from the gourd of the great above
and there is no point in struggle
or turning away from the syrupy mess
as it weighs so heavily on all that we are—
     when all that we are
        is stuck in all we’ve been
           and all we wish to become

so we try, deliberately with each breath
to be at ease somehow in our hearts
with whatever grief or nagging regret
and the soppy glaze, now crystalline,
forms a thin shell through which we peer out,
aching for release.

Tried writing a morning poem
just the other night
while the darkness was deep.
Reminded me of an old,
weary decree—
look for Him
in the usual places,
not in your own way.

There can be no substitute
for an early awakening
and feeling the sun
on pale, exposed flesh—
supple and ready for
the morning teachings,
in the tomorrow I await
with boundless faith.