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Dawn Breaks
I am small today too insignificantly drawn.
I am old with red treaties in my breast.
I am always not enough too often too much.
I will fall to knees I will unravel the age in these hands.
I will weep ash I will not die.
And do not reach out to squeeze the air when I lunge for the crux.
And do not be undone when the future seemingly falters and lapse
against you.
The air is milk.
My hands are steady.
Dawn explodes over the mountain crest and allows for worship in the
rocky stream.
And maybe it's 1964 today.
And perhaps it's fifty years stretching from the tips of my fingers to the
heal of my foot.
