arrive at will
i will listen to the still, small voice, the one that speaks when i am rumpled in a quilt, a quagmire of questions buffeting my dreams, the light of morning not yet golding the treetops, venus holding her scepter above dawn, servant to her potent charm.
i will listen to the still, small voice when death slips her hand in mine and reminds me to wake as a witness to what arises, to grieve the wrongs then release them, to lift the microphone of my voice to praise the day.
i will listen to the still, small voice beyond the chatter in the halls of power, beyond the desecration of simplicity, beyond the whooshing of the freeway and the packaging of the thises and thats in the must-have marketplace.
LOOK! the deer have come for the fallen apples behind the woodshed! the stellars jay flies with an acorn in its beak! in the branches of the oaks and the boughs of the cedars, spirits play!
and just now, sun spills onto the wooden floor, making a glimmering path as the still, small voice says, COME! Meet the day and its horizon!