Beyond the Edge of Getting

 

In the blaze of promise

everywhere

the eyes of morning

edged with rain fall on

every word that is written  

 

I gaze at a tree’s baby green buds

confused by this too long winter

steam rises from the ashen cedar fence

a laundry line sags under the watch

of prayer flags in stilled contemplation

 

Jan Garbarek’s tenor sax sings

from the gramophone

flows across the grey lit room

the spartan writing table  the

inked quill poised to write something

 

to write anything 

waiting for the music to unlock lines

open the doors of heaven

reveal angels in the shape of flies

that are still artifacts of glory