On Waking

a poem

On Waking 

          The new morning: 
a shattered gull cry 
fading behind closed eyes. 
          White light beats through 
half-closed blinds. 

          What needs to be said 
says itself in weather, 
and the breath 
          before a first word is uttered. 

          And when a word arrives, 
may it be vacant
and weightless on the tongue—
          a small vessel for awe.