in the molten magenta that is this morning
when the birds are yet asleep
i feel the poetry that is me

silent and unconscious… unaware of
an offering of presence and existence
an invitation to make history of mystery

come to me speak to me
i am here i am spirit
i am ears… flame
i am yours

i dare not be without this worship that is
a meditation on excavated tenderness
a reminder to enter humbly the shrine

to lay flowers before the awaiting altar
to sing the opera that kneels inside my throat
to become the risen phoenix with the omniscient eye