Laura Reece Hogan

The mystics say to dig, hammer the cloud, day and night.

The upright scrawl of leaf cleaving last to the fig tree I mistake each daybreak for the bird-messenger, the one which I am sure will come flare the mouth of morning.

Orbits have pulled us to this moment. Blessed are you who call me out of darkness to feed me low-hanging light, waxed amber and plump.