Morning arrived three minutes earlier than usual, carrying her empty wooden bowl of lingering stars and waxing white moon song and somebody’s crowing rooster.
(Did you hear her as she traipsed in, all rosy-cheeked? Did you fall on your knees in the snow to greet her? Did you whisper love poems to her coming? Are you writing them down now, or painting them, or simply wrapped in their symphony as you shovel out your driveway toward afternoon?)
She held her empty bowl before us, yes, she did. You never see anything in her bowl except maybe vague plans for work, soft-boiled eggs, meetings, chores.
“Dive,” she whispered, “It’s time.”
You stared, sleepy-eyed into Morning’s bowl, not really trusting that emptiness will transform to everything, that you will be saved and not flattened against the hard-rimmed edges of her wooden cusp. You’ve arched a thousand times before. Each time it’s just as hard to surrender to not-knowing whether the bowl supports, cleaves, strengthens, allows.
“Dive,” she whispered. (Did you hear her voice sultry or commanding, unfriendly or passionate? Did you hear her singing or whining, gifting or taking?)
Do you remember the exact moment when you leapt into Morning’s bowl, when your open palms met the emptiness and allowed her coming, when your feet surrendered safe bed, when your eyes flashed in swift wonder at the incredible gifts of sunrise she offers again and again and yet again?