Election

The Morning After

0121.2025

The sun’s amber wound spills in the southeast,

Its light the indifferent herald of morning.

A dove stirs on my the porch,

But its music sings unheard -

How quietly I wander in

The desert of my grief.

The good have turned their backs,

And man’s hand is heavy with shadow -

It runs me into exile.

Where is the alchemy of wonder now?

What thief stole the purity of my soul?

And where, oh where, is the hand of my friend?

Where is his tether to my wandering heart?

Let my life be an anchor to earth’s roots,

And let my weary heart take flight, and soon,

Upon the wings of the sacred dove

Whose silenced hymn aches to rise again.

And when I am whole,

I will come back to the quiet art of giving love away,

Like a river yielding itself to the sea.

M.C.F.