Again the dark morning...

This is my time
Before the rub and pace of life thickens to frenzy;
With hope like starlings murmuring in my blood.

Nothing happens.
The soul is reappointed
that is all.
These feelings feed me with their grace.

“In the beginning was the word…”

Maybe…

but Is not being first
With words following after like a beggar?
There are so many things before the word
And more again before the stumbling tongue.

Yet this is where I spend my stillness;
Somewhere after the dawn of time
Sometime before the birth of being,
Where substance hasn’t quite existed yet.
Here I search for words.
Here,
In the melting,
I touch the new made voice of God