Monday Poem

In the beginning was the word —John 1:1


send me a poem that hunkers on haunches
watching for the day to begin, that waits
for the right word to come with the sun
during the last hours of the night-watch
when all are asleep except the watcher
and there is still rustling in the underbrush,
the wordless sounds of something moving in the dark,
in the raw underpinning of the day,
in the interval between now and now,
at the birth of light, at the end of night
send me a poem that does not lie
that does not yield, but does not smite

by Jim Culleny