Matins
With the stillness in the morning,
can this silence predate the begining of time?
Or do those colors in the farthest depths of the sky
howl and rage like a brain gone dry?
Dawn comes like a whisper.
A solitary bird flies by.
Mute witness, ignorant of how or why
or what survives there and then,
I can still identify
with here and now
and for the moment
assert I am, once more, alive.
Kirby Congdon