The day does not speak above a whisper, is a high dividing
upon a moment into ebbing and flowing,
two pairs of lips neither pressing nor quite yet parting,
the twilight between sleep and waking,
the bowl of hush held lifted to the bird’s first trilling.
Yet the day does not wait. It has become a waiting
as we have become our shadows stuffed full of wind and walking
and if my hand reached toward you, it would pass through you.
For the world has become a dream of that sleeping Head
which on Friday we pierced and folded in dust
until He awakens tomorrow when the light of His rising
hardens to hils and crystallizes to rocks and ripples to streams.

-Vassar Miller