Sabbath#25

Morning and the alarm rings off and off for over an hour. Transtromer writes ” Waking up is a parachute from dreams.” Last night, a film of the monastery in the French Alps: the sounds of prayer. The last days of January. Also, the greens cooked down and we savored the broth, sipped the warmth. And then,”The green zone of morning.”  Two nights ago silence woke me. I walked to the window and opened it to hear the sounds outside: stars and wind, night. Practice silence. Practice poems. Braid light with light. Move away from the window. Close the drawbridge. Stand in the courtyard. Enter the space between sleep and wake. Breathe. Breathe. And another breath. Lie down on the floor. A strange bird, the only music. He repeats three notes then removes one. Then nothing. A house in a field hears mostly wind in the bricks.