IN THE SACRED MORNING
In the sacred morning, if you cock your head and listen,
You can hear the dew moist on the grass, silent as it glistens.
And if you ever ponder what became of the likes of me,
Just look to the horizon and feel the touch of the gentle breeze.
And I will be there hovering, somewhere past the point of death,
A rose about to bloom in heaven, a spray of baby's breath,
That lingers on the fencepost, out there in the field,
Like some fierce and fabulous fighter, clutching sword and shield.
In the solemn eventide, I will lie and think of you,
And all the plans we cherished like ships upon the blue.
The emerald and the amethyst clenched in fury like a bully's fist.
And I will read your mind again with the grand telepathy
That used to flow from me to you, a brand of hallowed weaponry,
That warded off our hunger for a life not lived alone,
But sank beneath my willfulness like a haggard, hapless stone.
In the sacred morning, when we rose and broke the trust,
Of old and vetted promises that fell and bit the dust.
I will clutch to my breast the memory of our shining midnight sun,
The remnants of Alaska, when he with the most toys won.
And I will vanish from whence I came, the ether of this cyber world,
My white flag flung upon the field, my once bright vision blurred,
Our clarion song when youth stood strong and blind ambition stirred.
In the sacred morning, when the dove exhales his song,
And the robin treats her young to breakfast in the nest where they belong.
When the freaks and geeks of doublespeak rise to take their bow,
And my eyes turn toward the sunrise and the sacredness of now.
In the sacred morning, this tired old body sheds its skin,
And rises to the heavens to be with all its kin.
But not forgetting where it came from, what it leaves behind,
The stirring art of your wondrous heart that loved me in its time.
-Bruce Potts
Revised Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
