Morning

 “Love and ask no questions.”

~ Beckian Fritz Goldberg, “Bird of Paradise”

 Easing out of a trickster dream,
I come upon the tinder art
of dawn pressing through panes,
insistent on a ruffled rising
wearing the new moon dizzy
over her rosy heart.

Loosing myself from warm linens,
I rise as I imagine a lily might,
out of restorative silence,
spreading spare ivory petals
to tilt toward translucence
with an incessant need for light.

Beyond belonging that rings us—
a teeming realm of texture—
I respond to remote peripheries
where vistas abandon
horizon’s transitory yoke,
curving miles into adventure.

So much I read wails protest,
pain in a world turned to grief.
Where I page for transport
or look aloft to study stars,
should I question lyric resolve,
bear guilt for sweet relief?

So much poetry wails protest,
pain in a world turned blear.
Where I page for transport
or look aloft to study stars
with lyric resolve, still I wonder:

What are we doing here?