. . . so the sun has surmised the night
into day once again;
the dew is on grass,
the birds singing except

for the barn swallows who never
seem to touch a branch.
The air cool before the heat
of the day begins.
                            And the summation
of yesterday and the day before,
the brief of years whose conclusions
constantly appear has begun, again,
for me.
             Such meditation is not a longing
for what has been but a study
of the fault lines in my life
I cannot, dare not deny.
The blues and hymns
of my life start again -- no
separation between them.
Anymore than I can keep apart
the right and wrong,
the good and bad
of my life.
               I think that's what
the sun always rising is:
what is it without the moon
and night.