May morning be astir with
the harvest of night;
Your mind quickening to the
eros of a new question,
Your eyes seduced by some
unintended glimpse
That cut right through the
surface to a source.
May this be a morning of
innocent beginning,
When the gift within you
slips clear
Of the sticky web of the
personal
With its hurt and its
hauntings,
And fixed fortress corners,
A morning when you become
a pure vessel
For what wants to ascend
from silence,
May your imagination know
The grace of perfect danger,
To reach beyond imitation,
And the wheel of repetition,
Deep into the call of all
The unfinished and unsolved.
Until the veil of the unknown
yields
And something original
begins
To stir toward your senses
And grow stronger in your
heart
In order to come to birth
In a clean line of form,
That claims from time
A rhythm not yet heard,
That calls space to
A different shape.
May it be its own force field
And dwell uniquely
Between the heart and the
light
To surprise the hungry eye
By how deftly it fits
About its secret loss.
♣ John O’Donohue in To Bless The Space Between Us
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