In the Quiet Light of Morning

I want to say everything at once
or nothing at all.
The six year old approach
to telling, the whole
vanilla sheet cake of experience
in one bite.

'Cause sometimes, the story seems to splinter
into small tinsel party-favor bags,
two tin soldiers of truth,
a hot wheels mantra, and a little packet of
gum drop lies
that stick to your teeth.

So instead, I try drawing
lines from pieces to whole,
like the sketched skeleton of a Tipi,
or a life story
in pointillism.

I spend my nights
plucking little words from
God's Great Leatherbound Dictionary,
dropping them into your lap
like stars.

Someday soon, I'll find
the primeval password that
renders everything weightless,
written into the towering walls of time.

I will whisper it
into your open ear,
and you will move forward
like a steamship,
your course quiet and true as
the movement of clouds.