at the table opposite mine
another aging
slit eyed malcontent
nurses a beer and dares anyone to say hello.
don’t look at me, buddy-
I got all the mirrors I
need, at home.

in the meadow, past
all his big *** fun,
the grass was cut down within the past few weeks.

the passing rain has made it interesting, fertile, exciting:
birds bounce high and then pounce-
mice, for sure, feel their way
with great care.

the angry man has left.
a dog waits in the
back of a truck.

I am still here, to see these moments.
there are things that need to be noted, and someone to take them in.

for this alone, perhaps
I descended to this place.

and out of the very
corner of her aging eye
a younger ****
from far away
makes an overture of unknown nature
the novelty alone stops the bus
and all the old women on board
clutch their large handbags
close to their sides and say aloud:
what does this mean?

maybe nothing at all
maybe just what it looks like
maybe it is the Universe come calling
placing a new plate of wets in a new location
in a new form on a new platter

soon, her nose will take over
and she will know to eat or not
and what to think about it all

there isn't really anything to fear
the bus is still moving in the right direction
how could it not, as beautiful as it is
stop now and then
and garner new riders
the ones that see the color
and hear the music
and how is there not
a rightful place for one and all?

that is a given.
there is no problem
it is love itself
dancing through the mirror or self to self
and in the end
nothing at all but
a blessing

in the blink of an eye
I am standing in my child body
holding my lunch sack in my hand

there is no sandwich or apple
there is no note from my mom
it is full of the very small hope that I have managed to keep
and a doorway to endless desire
that leaves me breathless, for family and home
for sunshine and days with no pain

I stand in the rain of a dark early morning
at the corner, waiting for the bus
that never comes.

it just might be that as we fly
through this life we leave a contrail
of dazzling light, color and refraction
certainly smell, I know that for sure
and memory triggers for others to find out on their routes
like sniffing posts for bygone dogs:
an angel has passed this way, and wow
what a beauty it was by all apparent scents-
photographs….

take all this, the collected essence
of the passing of beings beyond description and sink it into
bits of paper, and cover them with years and nuance
take away the human minds that knew these people-
where they came from, what games they played, how they cried
when teased or jollied and how they smiled when you loved them clearly-
leave it all in a box, and put it out in the middle of my so called
living room, and there I am, sitting, witness to all
of this that has passed away beneath the bridge, like Pooh-sticks in a dream.

When we see that this is truth, it should sink into the earth
down beyond the deepest vision, birthing black holes, new suns above,
dripping fish and spawning babies; dancing apples; peaches; pears;
cloudy mornings just after the rain but really
it weighs little in this world’s terms, just another of the many things
that make no sense, when you pause, mid step and give it wonder.
there are more moments here, it seems to me, than all the stars I see at night,
how can that be? how is this given?
only my eyes, only mine, the gateway and the telling mouth
through which these memories find their focus,
bring the people and animals, divine, back into this life again;
they stand about me, smiling.

and then it comes, as in the past, when I ask aloud to no one there
who will see these stories moving, when I have gone outside to play and failed to come home in time for supper and never made
it to bed that night? is that the point? does it even matter?
it is only small mind that dares to think that the present
can or is defined by that which we hold in our hands
bits of paper, a passing smell, and the habit of
carrying it all in a box, the charred remains
of the one true cross

give yourself this, they say to me, give yourself this
small piece of pie; cherish the bite that you have bitten
it’s part and parcel of who we are
don’t deny the being you wear, tooled and scarred
like well rubbed leather, the passing of time is part of the charm
being human brings with it a grace, to love the ones we fail to see
but we are never without their presence; they exist in full outside this box.

I pick my playmates for the day, some to scan and some to share
some to look at deep in feeling, see their eyes now fill the room-
the rest will wait, with their agreement, contain their light to
one small spot
as if this was the summation of all they are
but in their kindness they wish for me to know that
they are always here and I am welcome to
walk among their paths, when the wind is cold
and my heart needs the comfort of
things gone by-

From the harsh strains on the wind
a small harmony is forming
and it calls him, blackwing
to settle on the wire
to watch the many majiks
take a form to suit the day

unmoved by  the story
growing tenfold stronger
in the moment of the witness
she kneels to pick up
the still still birds; delicate ******* and feathers
still remember the endless flights
their faces soft and sweet.

out into the sunny space, outside the house
and near the river
she rests them down upon a stone.

by means unknown except in riddles
her heart engages the spell that
everyone carries but few can see
and makes from the dear dross
castaway of this life
the golden floating mantle that will bring us
comfort for a time before
it becomes the brightest light as it
was meant to be, for that is where
we all come from; that is where we go

crow's heart is full: he heard the calling
this is the song he is meant to sing!
where to start? and how to phrase it?
everyone must hear! everyone can already feel it
warmth that drives away the darkness
lights the place of hate and confusion
the majik that we all wear
the golden mantle here and now
it is a round and all will sing
crow leaps up, and without a thought of failure
he falls into the sky

good morning to you, the last drop of your family,
distilled into this fluttering bird form,

buoyed endlessly by unseen songs of many generations, spirits all having fun, marching in circles around your life, banging pots and pans, wearing aprons and overalls and their Best Sunday Clothes; picking flowers and baking pies; making with their hands,

and always talking, laughing, talking talking until it becomes a near solid in the affairs of the worlds,

and you, whether you know it or not, get to wear it all like the blanket around your shoulders that is just enough to keep going, on the coldest of nights.

should they tie you to a stick
to light you on fire, for breaking all the rules that your life
insisted were lies of the first order
I will cut the ropes
with my very very sharp knife

and for that moment at least
we can tumble forward
out of the circle
and into the arms
of the welcoming night

My dear old friend
is waiting for people
to bring her the pill, which will end her life.

She wants it to arrive
before the pain is too much
before the confusion cannot be laid to rest
before she loses her self along the way.

She did this life full up
her hands were always glowing
she did not take more wounds than she could carry
and she did not hide from those she had
and spend her days, as some of us might
standing three quarters in shadow
hoping to be whole again
by chance.

She held it all, once she was grown
in her long strong arms
and carried it full term
to the Big Table and
without a sideways glance or
a catch in her breath
she shared it all with everyone there
with everyone whose eye’s could see
with all the family from all our lives,
she shared and then felt better
to have touched as she was touched
as light knows itself, and rejoices.

This is the story. That is how it unfolded.
Now, what can be said?

I am so full, it’s leaking out
everyone here, everyone at the big table
we could never be more proud
of the person you are, and the person you
let yourself become
your willingness to be
and become whole
even when it looked like
everything might fall apart-
you’ve discovered the trick
that nothing is as simple
as it appears.

I will remember your smell
the suchness of you, in passing
and be sure as you can be
that I will know you again
in another time, another life
when you are fooling me
by being my child, this time
or maybe a happy dog I see
along the way

this is what the tricky ones do
as it is their heart at play
because they finally know that
they rejoice in living all the parts of this life
but they are not bound in fear by any.

Thank you for teaching me, and
being my friend.

In the distance, I can hear the bell calling
wake up wake up wake up
it has echoed near and far
always, throughout my life

I share this with you
as a clue on your journey
and I will loan you, if needed,
my old well worn night wings
you can jump up so high
and then break the illusion
ride the bell singing
way up to the breathing
the endless breath circling
high above this world

and the wings will drop away
because there is no thing such as falling
and there are no more edges
there is only the song
and the breathing
and  the song
and you

In the very moment of committing
in the beginning of her dive
she whips the curtain away for
just a moment
and the vast huge
chasm filled with golden light
shoots out
and everything I have ever known
is reduced to the moment
where I am drawing breath
but had to stop-
we rarely get to see something
so very sudden
so very beautiful
the entirety of things
encapsulated in this
dear old woman’s glance.
She time travels
the lark is on her shoulder
Alberta is just outside
the voices of schoolmates still ring
and we are so blessed to have
the eager ears of
all the children that
have ever been.

At just the right moment, to my surprise
you are sitting to my side, and watching intently
as the man says all the things, so very true,
coming through the screen that connects me
to the larger world.

Your left hand reaches out and covers my right
I can see and feel your hand
even through your death.
I didn’t know this was possible
and yet
it was the most familiar, natural thing
like water running through the rocks-

He was telling a story of an unwanted birth
and how the child became
like a black hole
needing to take the light of others
as she was never acknowledged in her own.
It was your true story
and you showed up to hear it.
It made me cry.
I wish it had been different for you.

Now you have gone back to
where-ever it is that you are, these days
I still feel your hand
I wonder
will I ever know that kind of touch again-
is that even possible?
A lifetime of being seed from seed
having known your heartbeat before
you birthed me free
the incredible weight of being
and the joy, too-
the curiosity and wonder,
all in that brief touch.

Perhaps you will pay me
another visit, sometime.
you are welcome to do so-
anywhere in time and space
I will know your touch
and accept it
there are no words needed really
as that moment says it all
and then I will be here again
as is always the case
alone and full
like the sky at night
waiting to see who
comes calling-

your efforts are heard: savor it.
living alone is a choice...there are empty parts
a lack of other(s)
I feel it often.

I have become accustomed, oddly enough-
to being solo.
not anything that I had imagined for myself:
an adaptation to rejection.

successful, but not to my
personality.
it is part of who I am.

I am stunned by expectations I hear about.
I do not have these sorts of problems.
this is part of my efforts of self care.
there is a lot of leaking that goes on
I have to bolster my own light within.
the heart lives, by breaking over
and over.

I like to read about sensitive people
who relate to their plants-
how do they manage?
I could have asked my family
but they are dead
as you know.

I am happy to encourage generosity
but there is no reason
to cling to expectations
I would rather make stuff
or write
to take care of animals
and stuff.

I would rather do this than chase
people around to be my friend
I guess
I am getting old now-
I would just sit
and not say a word:
what else can be said?

screaming cat call
in the deep
of night
I lay quite still, there,
hoping to keep a good feeling
and watched with 
resignation
as it slipped away.
now I am awake
my friend has snuck through
my room
and hurried on
her smell lingers but
she had to fly
her brother worried
in the car.
crickets meditate 
at the top of their lungs
and far away
I wonder how the oldest child
fares this night-
all we share in the end
is sleep

If you came home, every night
with the smell of oil paints wrapped up in your hair
and turpentine
and linseed linseed linseed oil
I would never have to move again
transported
to the place where it all begins

I don’t need to see
what you’ve created
I already know it,
I see the sparks jump from
tree to tree
this is how the world is set on fire
looking down into my palms
there is a glow
that I had forgotten about
until you brought your smell
into my home

led on by this
against the vale of shade
one person sees and says:
good luck with that! you’ll be eaten alive!
Who do you think you’re kidding?

The next one says:
we are born to suffer, born to die
the ocean wave is just too large
swim brave swimmer, and I feel for you
but against this tide there is no
homecoming to be had-

and the last one sees
the glowing shine of my outstretched hands
making my face an open book
showing just one step or two, and no more than that,
and says:
Is this Light? It must be Light!
The Darkness was a lie after all!
She shrugs her way out
from beneath the oldest cloak
she opens the gate
that doesn’t shut again
and looking down
her hands come to life and light her eyes

jumping quickly tree to tree
unnoticed by most, beneath their load
the spark runs fast
and you hear laughter
as against all habit
the sleepy world is set on fire again

All this day
I have felt you lying dead
in the next room
waiting for me to find you
you are gone now
years past count
death has become
my father

All this day
I have felt you lying dead
in the next room
waiting for me to find you
you are gone now
years past count
lite the pyre
walk away

I did not want to kiss her
did not want to make out.

I considered saying: I just want to be closer
than we have been
I just want to graze the surface, lightly
I do not want to kiss you

I do not want to go that way
and then have to hitch to the rails
of well worn routes

I hover in her space
for however long, to say:
it's okay
here
is another way to look at this thing

Sitting on the couch, trying to remember
After my mother left my dad: I don’t know who cut my hair.
I doubt I went months and months
Until I saw my grandmother again

I know it wasn’t dad, that wasn’t in his box of tricks
Though his hands were beautiful beyond compare
And created the same in so many ways.

But this didn’t include a sad boy’s hair
And besides, he wouldn’t have had the time
Or interest.

I missed a lot of school that year
The sickness coming that would dog my heals
Until this very day
The death of art; the closure of a soul to the outside world
The retreat and seclusion to make sense of that
Which cannot be sensible.

And when they said they would hold me back
He came to the school like a small hot flame
And scorched the Principle off his feet
Scared that huge man into another county
I had never seen anything like it
And wondered why he would protect me so
When he didn’t particularly know how to like me
Like anyone or anything, in those days-
I guess I was his kid, is all
And that’s what fathers did.

I still can’t remember who cut my hair
But then again, there are lots of things I
Cannot remember and wouldn’t do so if you paid me.
I can feel them still but the details are well placed
Beneath the foggy glass of time
And convenience.

When I was 23, upstairs in the house
on the busy street
I went to bed and had a dream.

I was in my own bed, in my dream
and a man came into the room
older than me, but not by much
he was nice looking, and had a brown beard
and hair-

get up- he said-
I am a projection here and it
takes too much energy for me to stay long

I got out of bed, amazed.

you must learn to put your problems
into your dream state
and work them out there, he told me
and then they will resolve in waking life

and he was gone.

I stripped and remade the bed, repeating
his instructions to myself, out loud
and telling myself that I could do this, I really could

it was known to me too, that if he was a projection
in my world, then very likely
I was a projection too, of one sort or another.

this is the most clearly overt the dream people
have ever been
though they are rarely out of touch-

they come to take me on the Endless Journey
night after night and show me things
that riddle like poetry
and fill up all the following days
as I try to see through the vastness
of the weaving that is this life
this 3-d printout of the spiritual song
and find my place in it.

I try, in part, because it is that which I must do
and I try, in part, to counter the gnawing
groundlessness that eats me alive every morning
when I awake, in sadness and fear

what a funny tact to use
to try to find grounding in the most
groundless and limitless space there is
the eternal world of dreams
from which everything flows.

it’s all that I know
it is the tool set given to me-
along with the urge to ask questions
to talk to trees and animals
to feel the lift and fall of the wind at night
and to stand calling, with no sound
when the moon shows her face

in that moment that the world calls back
you will never hear from me again
there won’t be a need
I’ll be everywhere, with the dream people
making the rounds
and taking the likely culprits
on a journey that never ends

To the heart on fire
everything is tinder
no matter the guise it wears

tender in the rain
tender in the night
tender in the light of dawn

he comes up to me
and his face is alight
rolling like a ship at sea
slowed but not stopped by
a history and pain that does not
really intrude on our meeting.

My friend! My friend! He calls- how are you?

I sit on my stool, I have my tea!
I have these beautiful hills to keep me company
and I watch all the peoples as they go by-
I am a lucky man.

God loves us: god loves us-
this said with no preamble
and his eyes are mine for a moment and
of course I agree
as it is only the truth of every breath.
God loves his faithful servants; his good people;
he blesses us with life- what more could I want?

The car is full of gas now, and he shuts off the pump.
Asks if I would like my receipt, a proof
that he and I were here, together:
yes, I would, if you don’t mind-

of course, habibi, he says, quietly, and rolls
through the unseen waves of his being to the office and
back again.

And I am gone and somewhere else. But the flower
is still unfolding,
the fire that began has grown larger, even now-

and God speaks to me, through an old man on the hill
in his broken English
and calls me His own.

Last night was the night, that Sue flew high and free-
dear Emma just called to tell me so.
I’m sure she took herself out of the game
before it became too too god awful
and everyone would have to witness the decay.

She flew in the night. She has no more pain, she
is no longer tired to her bones.
She has no more bones.
Just the echo of her final breath
as it will stay in the hearts of her family
until they find her again, as night
becomes day.

Her brave first born daughter on the phone
Sue wanted me to be called, not to see it in an email
she wanted me to know, she wanted
her daughter to tell me so.

I told Emma that I loved her, and wished
that I could give her a hug
and how I knew I would always find her mom
again some other go ‘round.

She thanked me for being her mom’s always friend.

There wasn’t much more to say.

Now I am sad, and angry too
and everyone I didn’t ever ever want to lose is
in the room with me
and their eyes are kind
and the fact remains.

It seems that only our breath
binds us together
but that’s not exactly true
I remember the sound of her voice
it has a small, snug cottage in my
inner place
she is safe, and warm, and free
and happy
and
everywhere all at once.

I wonder what that is like.

she fought it out
despite shame and fear
and near the end
lost sight of her own face
as it stared back in sorrow
up from the very deep well

the body deteriorates before we get out
the only way is through-
put that in a poem, ******
she said
and so I did.

Hollow as a reed
the moving Breath plays a song
who's hands are these that do The Work?
Who's eye's are these that see with love?
Who's heart is the heart of every living thing
and breaks, with little hesitation
with each pounding wave

step into it and
step aside
it is the only way it can work
otherwise we walk the tracks, head down
and we do not see the train, no,
nor where this road might take us
the soft deer trail that leads away

they taped the mittens to her hands
she would tear the IV from her body
they wrapped her up in swaddling clothes
as in the beginning  so in the end
she had forgotten to look up, so
very long ago
made a habit of grasping all
that could not be owned
and in the end it fled away

the body deteriorates before we get out
the only way is through-
put that in a poem,
******

Then the moment came
it was time for her to go.

We lingered near each other, outside
feeling the warmth from a fire
that wasn't quite present anymore
but wasn't really gone

I kissed her, softly
a surprise
which should have been startling but
really was simple
and taken as such
she looked at me and said
maybe you will find a wind
that will take you away from all of this

I leaned in and whispered
there are people and places
that I do not yet want to leave-
but it was time for her to go
and so she did.

I went back inside
and looked around
and thought about a house, a home
what it means
and I saw my grandmother in my mind
smiling, and full of beans
and happy to play her part for me
watching in joy as time rolled on
and left her there, in the story that
has no end

she said: do you want me to do your corn for you?
Meaning, give me my due, make up my serving
make me part of the supper of life...

I ran back, quickly, outside
to see if Kate was still there
though she would not be

I wanted her to be the one
that would do my corn for me
be with me, in the small moments when we make tea
and dish up the evening meal
a small small kiss
endlessly important, that
comes and goes
and choose to stave off,
at least for now
the calling of the wind
that will take all this away

pushing up the attic door
a nearly lifeless cold rolls down in a palpable wave
their memories of a farmhouse 1910, the brick and mortar that made
the foundation of the strongest people I have ever known.

We'll warm it up! They exclaim, with cheer-
tell that to ancient blankets and damp dense quilts
that haven't seen a living body in the past six months
lumpy mattress and the simple single thickness of wood
three feet above the head of the bed

very still, then, wrapped in darkness and
a quiet weight shared by those entombed
I hope that if I do not move, I might not die
as the heat from my 10year old boy body
chips away at neglect and assumption
my trust in big people challenged yet again-

now there is something, movement: flutter: let the games begin!
A mouse, in all His Joy, runs back and forth across my chest
knowing we have been placed here for each other
to keep good company
this dark and deep winter night.

The north wind off the lake tears and cries
at the window screens and shingled roof
I have long since stopped listening and found
that place that eludes me now,
a peaceful place alone with all the memories
and a mouse curled up and dozing next to me
and there is no one about the place
that has a single care in this world

how could I make up
for all your years alone in the
dried up, haunted orchard?

I have made my own small garden
and the cats sit in the dirt
on balmy summer nights and sing
their song that they made
when the world was young

I will share with you the part
that can be yours
I will give to you
a place that you
might rest and sing, too
if you will lift your voice
away from lamentation

can you feel that the very Earth
has come alive again?

the rushing home of all your appetite
has blurred the lens, for just a moment
believe in this, it is real
pace yourself
your soul, your pain, your joy
your wanting, and then
all the receiving, too

your kindness washes over me
and heals the rooms I had walled
away
for all my talk there are places
I assumed Spring would never come again

thank you for being a light to show
that the doorway has always been open
take my hand that
we may wander together
along the path, where
we have never been

all I ask
is to remain whole
and that you will bring your
whole self with you when we meet

I simply
cannot pretend any longer.
either I am enough, in this life
or I am not.
everything else is a lie
tattered in the wind
and falling away
no hands could scoop it up and make
the pretty mask again
and I am too tired to even try

the last packed bag
in her hand
the door made the smallest sound
as she clicked it closed
no one was awake to hear
no one ever would

the car was waiting
and light was just filling the sky
the shadow stood behind her
and then was gone

tap your heels three times
no matter what they say
tap your heels
and wish yourself home
the magic has begun

the orange kitty in the leaves
was not there just a short time ago
but those leaves knew he would come, the minute they were
but young green things
they could feel his love building
and all that he would go through
finally
to find his way home

and now it is as it is
and always would be
the spirit takes so many forms
how lucky we are that one
is orange and looks
with such deep eyes
and loves with little
reservation
and dares to claim, with a full heart:
you are mine

My sister had a very
disappointing relationship
with our father
growing up
and always

she got her wings
as part of a rather large
tribe that know this song
and has done her very best
to carry on being
disappointed with men
along the way-

ALL MEN ARE THE SAME
she has said to me

I’m not remotely like
the characters she rails against
and I tell her so.
it just happens that
the ones she finds
sure seem to be that way-
I have to give her mad props
for her picker:
exquisitely fine tuned.

She gives me **** about
my stuff too, as she should
calls deep into my darkness
to the lie that I have grown to believe
the one that has led me to adopt
the dance of the meadowlark
so long that I have forgotten it
was a tool, a ruse,
a survival technique and not
really who I am

dancing in a pointless circle
with a wing that appears to be broken
luring no one in particular
away from the meat and substance
the overflowing bleeding heart
the tears and mostly the rage
and fire
and creativity
that is really me.

We are old now
and apparently successful in our delusions
but not really quite so
because we were born to be just smart
enough
to nibble away at the edges
and want to put on the shining suit
of light
with wings that really work
with eyes that choose to see
with hands that will touch
everything, all at once
and rejoice

now it is time to eat lunch
I wonder what she is up to
there are small things I must be about
and in the background
unavoidable
and yearning
the open blackness that means
another dimension is nearly here
waiting to be born

We have our third talk in the month
and I tread clearly, carefully lifting
and placing each statement
and each assumption
still, I am covered in filth
I wonder if this will feel
clean again

you’ve been separated from
your wife of 35 years
for almost two years now?
You never mentioned that:
yes, I never wanted to tell you.

you’ve been to jail
and your story doesn’t really add up

you’ve lost your mind
in bits and pieces
I called you back to shore
but still
you make me afraid to breathe

no wonder she left you
at 3am while you slept deeply
no wonder she just left
a short note on the door

there is too much denial here
too much control
too much shame

I am so sorry for you both
humanity is such a bore
a chore
and so very painful
in all the smallest details

is it a sorrow that a ridiculous habit
is shattered after
an entire adult life has been spent
pretending it was real?

In the end, I don’t think so
but then, I don’t have to hold
that note in my hand
and I don’t have to give up my house
and I don’t have to look in the mirror
or see her face in the eyes of my children

I am mostly stunned
given where you come from
that you missed the lesson on trying
to live the truth

now you have bound me not to tell
others that know you
now I am complicit in this small lie
it makes me feel ill
too sick to even overeat
and that’s saying a lot

and I love you still
and know you are but
a person
and I have read of this
and heard it all before
just not so very close to home or
rather
not so very steeped in my own
assumptions

so the lesson is mine:
wake the **** up and
own THIS feeling
and learn to never ever
close your eyes again

The gray of morning
and when you rise, from travel far that holds no name
you will go to the yard, as you did before
and in a bowl your grandma made
feed the crows your fresh let blood

they line the fence, dark against dim
their eyes so bright, silent, still-
they will drink the dream you've given them
it is only kindness that brings there here
this is not their home
they would rather have the berries
that you picked with the dog

they knew, in the night
each labored breath-
pleading forgiveness for a sin
that never was

will this button help, so yellow bright?
A lapis necklace we found by the bay?
Can our char-black wings cover your eyes
and take you to the place
where it all began?

We don't want your ****** tithe, given in mistaken shame
we don't believe that story of guilt
passed along, hand to hand by
every silly child so raised
to believe in only shades of gray

soon the sun is on the trees
drop your gown and fly with us-
there is no ground beneath your feet,
why cling to things that don't exist?

There is so much more than bitter blood
taken hard in biting pain
to share for breakfast with the fold-
tell us now, your Real True Name....

she turned to catch
the first full light
her shadow strong then dropped away
the warming blue was full of birds
she rose above to join the day




her footprint stayed there, in the sand
the bowl dried brown, it filled with rain-
clothes lay scattered on the rocks
a shoe no foot would fit again

creeping vetch, near wild sweet peas
lilac crazed from time alone
the lawn that has become the meadow-
the meadow that has become her home

they laugh out loud; no ears to hear them
black wings touching, one to another
you will feel them pass over, if you roll in that moment
when sleep drags you down and strips you bare

find the first light, then, way out in the garden
stand quite still, waiting, with berries and seeds
black birds on a fence and a bowl full of water
here to tell you that your day has come

the gate has swung shut, it will not be opened
your ticket is paid, there is nothing owed
open your hands and give us the gift now
here is the sun- no looking back