The moon no longer a perfect sphere, eclipsed,
the sun still hidden behind the horizon as
we walked from bedroom to kitchen to studio
on the barely lit path–the way crunchy, uneven
until I sit at my desk with the familiar buzz
of the heater fan. The sky still midnight blue
as I tidy my desk; the sight of growing order soothes,
brings attention to the vase of flowers cracking
worlds open–
just the other day, I thought about revelatory, nuanced
shades of gray–but today–today is a day for color:
fuschia, lavender, rose, peach–some subtle, inviting;
others bursting with depth, calling out even the hues
in the watercolor print on the windowsill: Mt. Baker
at dawn, the lower elevation peaks blanketed in indigo
like the pre-dawn sky now softening before my eyes, softening
like the rose or the daisy.
There is something about the realness, the liveliness
which prompts me to bow in delight.
The Unspeaking Center 