lay
hold of the day, while it has just begun—
embrace the cold of morning, awake!
awake, vision clears, we see dimly down the road;
the
road, full of hills and dales, twists and turns,
turns
our thoughts outward, toward what lies ahead.
ahead
looms possibility, the future—
future plans still forming, we lift our weary heads,
heads
half-full with reverie and fitful sleep.
sleep
at night, still and dark—that’s what night’s for;
forward we go, into the first faint, grey light.
light
the fire, fill the kettle, mark the time—
time,
and high time, to be on our way,
way
beyond the expected, past the mundane.
mundane existence, bleak, falling into a rut;
ruts
are just graves with both ends kicked out—
out,
then, into the wide world, under the sun,
sunshine warming not just body, but soul,
soul
fed by great art, real faith, bright hope, true love.
love
life, the gift of it—give little place to fear,
fear
only the pain of dead, unfulfilled dreams.
dreams born of the night take wing by day and fly—
fly,
then, down the road ahead, eyes open,
open
to the good and the bad—all that lies before.
before the chill and damp of pale dawn fade, are gone,
lay
hold of the day, while it has just begun.
—D. W. McMillen
19 February 2008
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