XII

Gray is the morning;
the earth is still.
Snow drifts soft like ash
and settles to cradle
the seed in its womb—
a winter sowing.
Raise a refuge.
Carve a window.
Let the air breathe.
Watch the thaw and frost
speak in turn.
This is our work:
tend and care.
It is in the waiting,
in the keeping,
in the being;
the unseen
is becoming.
The world is broken,
and it breaks us.
It is thankless,
and we give thanks.
We choose to keep the world.
We cannot yet see the dawn,
and the small, honest light we are given
is enough
for its hidden work.
So we speak into the empty sky,
with our hands still at the plow:
Awake, my soul.
Awake, harp and lyre.
I will awaken the dawn.
We till,
not to decide the hour,
but to be ready
when it comes.