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Poem: Morning Matrimony

Updated: Jul 14, 2023

Each morning, just before the sun rises,

I enter the forest and take my seat.

I listen, ears and heart attuned.

And when the morning's song emerges,

I hear the sounds of eternal success, the sounds of what works.

In the shimmering leaves

and on the dancing tiny tongues of the waking songbird,

I hear the sounds of what has always worked,

the sounds of what will always work.

I bathe in the symphony that rains down from the forest canopy.

As I sing along,

I do so, not to change Her song or to revise Her story,

but to nourish and protect it,

as it has nourished and protected me.

What gives meaning to meaning-itself?

What gives meaning to the substance that connects one moment to the next?

Does this substance demand anything in exchange?

Is there a ceremony owed, that weds the past to the future?

Could this holy matrimony be given in this very moment,

that this moment give birth to the sound that becomes a song?

The human is a story-creature.

If left story-less, in a desert-of-meaninglessness, he withers.

He withers because a moment by itself offers neither a song nor a story.

He withers unless he can wed the past to the future.

A story-creature's keen ear will hear the distant melodies,

millions of bountiful years

singing themselves far into the future.

These melodies are a gift from the past,

a gift of what works,

a gift given to a future that shall.

I come alive each morning

when the past and the future

are blissfully wedded.

A million years of reception-cheer

in the sounds of what works,

in the sounds of the forest.

In celebration, I join in song.


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