Morning

There is a narrow vacuum where all
that stays of the night's dreaming is
an aftertaste of faint emotion,
and what is yet ahead is yet
inadequately seen. Between
these poles a crystal emptiness
where my awareness hangs upon
the brief security of not-knowing.

But gradually the phial fills
with yesterday's foreboding
and panic at the world's encroach.
My arms reach out; blind fingers feel
for some familiar reassuring braille,
and find your well-remembered warmth
beside me warming the unbidden clay.
I wake to you, wake to the smiling day.