Lavender leaning towards last light.  Tiger lilies still tight, closed-eyed sleepy under petal covers.  Cat lags behind.  Crows complain.

Morning has broken like the first and last morning.  Parents are living far from the soil.  Praise for the healing, praise for the river rushing and flowing source to the shore.  Mine is the Gaia, mine is the arbor Way.  Mine is the praising, mine is the play.

Praise for the soaring, praise every morning.  God’s exaltation, light loves the land.  Night of unceasing shadows and ache, secrets that puzzle, stories that wane. 

We are the sunshine, we are the morning falling with gracing over the globe.

If we only saw the craggy bark of the towering Douglas fir, we’d be blind to the expanse reaching through the lazy sky.  And the roots that live beneath us rooted down as far as the stretching stem. 

Only a tiny bit of our lives are on the surface leaning towards the light.  The rest is snuggling spirit deep in the soul.