Looking out, it could be any other dawn
but for the frozeness I see and feel.
I am seeing spring grass beneath
the snow, recalling the rains of March.
There is a sense of what is missing
is what I want though without
the blasphemy of not being where I am
in the only time I have. Such sacrilege
is dangerous, as if I'm omnipotent
when I have only here and now -- that phrase
a koan of eternity, like the blood and breath
of the divine flowing through you and me.
It is a dawn like any other . . . almost
but for the deep cold, the urgent desire
it creates to hear and see the thunderstorms
of spring, birds landing in trees, their songs
mixing memories and dreams, how one
season longs for another before it's over.
How dangerous it is to be human.
-Byron Hoot
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