Waiting For Morning

The door and window were closed
at midnight so now the air is stale and warm.
Out of a dream of green and dogs
I waken. I pray for stars
as I step from the casita.
They are there, the stars,
but the Big Dipper, pouring
grace, is nowhere to be found.
I step into the grass
and squat upon the ground, then
make a stream of
last evening’s sweet wine
that let me sleep but
now has left me
wide awake.
Will the stars ever speak to me of
such love again?
Knowing that the door of
the morning leads me
both home and away from home,
I’m ready to step through it.
But morning in Abiquiu
is yet hours away.
Leaving the door wide open
I crawl back into bed
with a head
full of questions.
The handkerchief is out of reach
and my fingers search
the bags and bottles on the shelf.
My ribs press hard against
the wooden rib of the bed frame.
My fingers find cotton softness
And I blow—to blow away
the fears and doubts of a turning point.
I lay the crumpled white hankie
like a white, holy flower
on the altar of the windowsill,
my body cools
while
my heart burns.

(August 1999)