Coming Through

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 8/27/07

When did these things begin to speak to us,
So that the presence of things became the presence
In things, so that the soft sweep of sky
In the nebulous hour before dawn became an enitity,
Sweetened somehow with an internal form,
A knowing that touched the waters and the mountains,
Enlivened the common trees around our houses,
Birthed roses plumping mauves in cobalt dark,
And molded people, those faces and those hearts,
Into the living vagaries of our dreams?
When did the organism of this strange beyond
Become the supremely intimate thing,
The personage hidden in the wave of time,
Who makes our time eternal?
Somehow the softness combs our breath with ease
And speaks of peace in the center of the hive,
Wherein our fears, though we live in the humming darkness,
Are swept away with the fog as dawn arrives.

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