Where, where does the dawn go when it wants to hide itself from earth? Leaves outside my window shudder, press their thin bodies against the pane. The light illuminates their veins, bloodless.
Lodged somewhere in my spirit are feelings of soot and sullied second chances. I feel no new mercies this morning, and my body is heavy, heavy against gravity, as though tethered to my bed. I want to muster strength to stand,
to cup holy water in my dry palms, to pool it up like so much rainwater, to soothe the parched ground I have become. I want to be led like an innocent lamb by still waters. I want to open my eyes, unclothing my vision to behold a reality of God’s promises afresh. I want to be as whole as I was made to be, again.
When it wants to try again—when, when does the dawn come back? The sky inhales, and I hear it spread, laked out, in the song of a whippoorwill. Life rolls in with oars of light to sever cloud from cloud, nearer now than darkness has ever been. I inhale, too. The birds herald unwrapped graces: whippoor—
This new day, it has given itself to me. It bursts out, naked life, a bright aubade. I exhale—will, will, will.