Except in its own good time.
My child of constant source who does not creep,
But late night leaps into his parent's bed
Complete with language of surprise:
His fledgling verve, his after yawn,
A mockingbird's light in his voice,
Pipes sweetly from the mild confusion
Of our sheets, "Mom, is the day broken yet
Through the crust of the night?"
For two more hours the sun
Will fold upon itself its one black wing,
And the earth groan a father's gravid wish
For sleep."Not yet," is the weak reply,
"Not quite yet." And yet,
I hear through the slow wing
Of my own heart's counterbeat,
(If not fancy's meat, then pupil
To its sleepless buzz),
Silence brood and feed, congeal
In the nursery dark. Reveal:
Mother, in the leaf mold of all that is dreaming.
Father, in the word.
I am ever more certain that what awakens,
Awakens in the small of us.
Grows luminous, lucent, sown deep.
Larvals beneath song and seed.
Marvels by child and bird.
Certain that what furls bequeaths:
That from the wound sheets of a disheveled bed,
Now morning's fertile ground
Day breaks through the night crust
into dawn.
