First light, the end of sleep and dreams.
As the music of the day plays in my head,
I begin the usual rhythmic sway,
short, slow circles, arcing through the air,
passing over the deep graves this house is built upon,
the crypted earth, where dark infinitives hold on and on.
The day’s worship has just begun, already,
the altar is veiled in dark ribbons of question and doubt.
Light is relentless in its pursuit of surface,
an animal in search of a meal,
I am unable to resist its advances through the window,
across the floor, and over the pages in my hand.
This day, with its lists of promises and charges,
with its own rhythm and light, begins to take on structure,
a shape, that will unfold before my startled eyes, like a painted fan.