Early in the morning, the fog begins to rise,
the dew, heavy on the rows of fresh cut hay,
begins to steam.
At the far end of the field, the last deer flee to the forest.
You walk, the smell of her perfume still lingering,
the memory of her presence still with you,
the wonderment that two such strangers found each other
and stayed the course.
You walk, and you hear birds waking, sure their song
holds meaning beyond the cacophony that fills your ears.
You smell the earth, rich and pungent in the morning heat.
You feel the sun as it cuts the fog, hot on your neck.
There is no goal in your walking, no place you need be.
It is instead and opening and expunging,
a pushing out of the demons of the night,
their power evaporating like the sweat on your neck,
And leaving room for inspiration, God’s breath,
to fill your empty spaces and carry you
past your own darkness to the light
that has always been inside you, hiding like a child.
towards the sun.
About this poem
We all find our light in different ways. The way does not matter. The light does.
Let yours loose.