in the coming a.m.

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in the coming a.m.

buried deep in clay –soft in sleep lay

the dream - wild – its end stolen 

past purloined beginnings – 

buried deep in clay ready to rise 

in sunsoaked cloak of powers–

burns the dawning dream –ready 

to arise from clay – to stand on

strong bare feet, to speak in untied- 

tongues -buried deep in clay -this wild 

unleashed-for-glory–dream-without-end 

stirs in the coming morning, as one shining 

human entity shakes 

eoned sleep from eyes 

finally to see, to live the 

wild dream of one world, 

one heart, one collective 

soul risen from cool clay to

sing with one crystal voice –

shimmering from single grain

of stinging sand to arctic glaciers crashing– 

bounding, through all that lies between – 

from the velvet wing of butterfly to the roar

of tsunamied sea–singing as one clear voice- 

All distilled to one shining perfect being – 

spinning the blue marble between the

palm of one hand- this dream–now-realized 

risen-form-from-clay awake. proclaiming in

the soft whisper of a flushed joyful newborn mother – 

in the rolling operatic fever of ten billion threatened

fathers – affirming with one voice – in this one world–

at one time

I am.

One.








~
The Sunday Whirl