I will stand at my guard post … keep watch to see what he will say to me—Habakkuk 2:1
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. The Psalmist
says you are faithful, you are just;
give answer. Not in pre-dawn darkness
which dims my discerning, not in crashing
confusion from the street, please,
but in yellow murmur of petals, dropping
cursive of honey, low liminal hum
of bees. You are tender, you are gentle; give
syllables of yourself in spilling light. Wings
of white-throated swift, the slow opening
of pinecone, release of seed, snowcap roses
in loosening splendor. My written hand—
clay and so near ground, held up
to you, empty—waits
if not quite for an answer, then for some sprig
or scribble from you.
