There are those who sleep;
and there are those
who are called to dwell
in the divine in-between.
They go by many names:
Monks, Poets, Artists,
Writers, Singers, Nuns,
Parents, the Sick; all those who
sit upon the edges,
the sacred company of
holy insomniacs;
ghosts all.
Those who stand at the
threshold places
keeping watch,
and know the deep pain of choice;
and the deepest pain of being chosen.
Stitching together the day and the night
with gentle attention they
dwell in twilight, dusks,
moth-light, and moonsets,
and predawn glows.
They scent the breezes that carry
the grey hint of tomorrow’s storm;
sensations that stir the heart and
calm the ever chattering mind.
Walking in silence and stillness
they can barely tell who they are
let alone, why they are.
Only knowing Divine purpose
and meaning
flowing through every moment
as love, as fire, as now.
Having tasted the failure of words
they choose instead the
pure voice of breath, of tears, of laughter,
until all becomes prayer.
They are those who keep the world together,
watching over it through hours of night,
being a spark of hope to the despairing,
being a spark of light to those lost in their own
inner darkness; simply being,
for those who have no one to be for them,
simply holding the darkness of
night close enough, long enough,
lovingly enough,
that it births the dawn’s daily Divine gift
of beginning, with a burst of birdsong.
Author unknown
