This is the time of ameyn’s,
the morning fog spiraling off
the Agate Pass waters,
lifting, curtain like,
so the light can get on with the play.
In the dawn, a yellow leaf here and there
foot themselves shining
like old gas lamps along the stage,
rising as the first sailboat chugs by,
its motor harsh,
its sails bound tight in the stillness.
I raise my eyes to the hint of mountains,
known more by expectation than actual presence,
taking my first embodied bow of the day
before my own life must open its arms
and sing out Ameyn, Amin, Amen.
Find the entire poetry collection This Nurturing Awe: Poems Inspired by the 99 Beautiful Names of God at