Friday, May 02, 2014

In the Morning

A crow on a drooping hemlock bough scolds me for the trespass
At an hour he expected to have for himself

It is still
Not yet light
As I crease the hovering mist
Pushing my prow quietly forward
Toward a place where there is hope

Confident in my direction
I drift and stow my paddle with a clunk
Amplified by the need for silence
And raising my rod overhead
I thrust back and forward
Casting out upon the water

My offering is a deceit  
Floating in the place where
Air meets water
And I wait
For faith’s reward

The apostles were fishermen who wrote that
Christ Himself sought the face of God
In the morning


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