I do not wish my
eyelids to be rolled up
like an old window shade pulled hard,
to be jarred by red numerals
and a digital buzz or reports of congested
morning traffic.
It is asking for trouble.
Better to have the angel in my final
dream,
or perhaps nymphs who were dancing through
dew,
whisper that I should swing my legs over
the bow
and slide into the ocean and its gentle
current.
And please, no television,
no high-energy talking heads
reading words from teleprompters,
no pitches about aluminum siding,
gutters, or a bathtub that fits over a
bathtub.
In the silence is infinite participial potential,
the glory of the garden outside my window
which has my brain, pulse, and visions
of lilies, daisies, creeping jenny, and
knock-out roses
taking over the continent,
wildflowers run amok but that do not toil
or spin.
There is a day to be lived,
but let it begin with a few simple words
brooding over the abyss that was sleep,
syllables that call forth the is and shall
be.
Let each morning begin
with the kiss of Carrickfergus and waters
wide.
Let each begin with hope against hope
and the quiet explosion of creation.
~William Hammett
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