grow tired of themselves and can finally fall silent
I wake at my own gate of heaven
again
the bird song the open windows the pale brush of dawn the anticipation of a package on the porch and
the forecast calling me to water the pots of spring flowers and small shoots from
my soil
Nobody knows the exact place I speak of
it is not either my place to tell them
everyone is their own Jacob and must find their way
to the threshold of abundance
it has always been.