mostly I crouch, head bowed, eyes closed

against the soft black, safe in liquid suspense.

but even in the nothing there are constant somethings:

a fluid symphony, simmering, rolling, rushing past;

a metronome beating out the time,

world without end--and a voice:

hushed murmur, burbling laugh,

distant yet irresistible.

mostly I crouch, head bowed, eyes closed

against the soft black, safe in liquid suspense.

but even in the nothing there are constant somethings:

a fluid symphony, simmering, rolling, rushing past;

a metronome beating out the time,

world without end--and a voice:

hushed murmur, burbling laugh,

distant yet irresistible.

and then, at certain times,

I am bathed in thirsty, throaty songs:

o come, o come,

long-expected one;

rejoice, rejoice,

prepare the way;

comfort, comfort,

alleluia, amen.

and these reverberations of hope

shake the cradle that holds me,

and I stretch the kinks out of kneeling legs,

raise my arms in praise,

then bow and wait, again,

for that time when we will sing

Joy!

To the World!

together.

                                     --MaryAnn McKibben Dana

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