It begins the way dawn begins,
a hazy blanket settles on the lawn,
the hush before the sparrow’s song,
before the gold coin of the sun slips
into the trembling grasses.

I kneel
     (or not).
I only need to stop.
The wind will do the rest,
ruffling my hair,
carrying the scent of the damp earth
like an old psalm.

My hands stay empty.
The creek passes,
and I listen as it tells
of stones and rain and time,
and how none of these are in a hurry.

What I ask for
     the chirping birds already know.
What I need
     the ferns have been whispering
all spring long.

And so I stay,
while the sky, wide as mercy,
holds me.