The Beloved and the Bride Awaken the Dawn

(part 4)



One last night,
the warrior laid himself down.
One last night, outside.
A man alone, and beyond
the protective womb of a city wall.
One last night, but already different--
for even this night, he bedded in a changed world:
not on a pillow of stone,
on a bed of shifting grit-
but now on a mattress of soft moss.
Not under the desolate cry of the wind,
but under the compassing coo of a dove.

And more the change that bloomed in the morning,
for when he woke,
he woke to a welcome discomfort.

A long-lost foe of pleasant wakings,
friend of forest but not of man,
this friend to moss and trees
endowing them spicy aromatic,
made the man's grimy clothes and hair
all the more odious.
A friend likewise to the woodland creatures,
who while still morning-nestled in the cobwebs,
dressed them in fanciful pearls of light
(a reasonable pay for a night's boarding)
offered in those fleeting moments when it shared the world
with the light of dawn;
this friend of forest would in turn for the man
offer him little but deep-bone stiffness
in a sticky sort of way.
But the man did not grumble,
not even a murmur in his heart.

Dew.
So long absent as to be a thing forgotten.
Now,
once remembered,
once experienced,
real and near, after months of dry awakenings:
how had he ever thought it unpleasant?

And this new man
on this new morn,
found that which could so easily vanquish
the first-light
first-waking
comforts,
instead gently held his wonder and his peace;
daintily proving things past
and long absent from his company
were still utterly reliable
in their season.


Such meditations
rose up in him that morning
to a force so mighty
as could drive a geyser,
and with a similar allure
as what manna revisited might elicit.
So the man woke not only refreshed, but strong.

In time, he rose
and took the advice of the dew:
he sought a spring where he might bathe and drink.
Soon, he found a place where waters found their own wall of awakening,
a ceiling at the end of a cavernous trip,
that opened joyously into...
air!
And the man thought it a fitting place for his own immersing.
Careful not to touch that natural spigot
he nonetheless received of its gracious flow.
He lolled in the pooling waters where he floated.
He listened.
The sound of the waves lapping over him carried
a strangely layered humming.
And he considered the water might speak to him,
so naturally he spoke in return.
"We are kindred souls this morning," he cried.
Then he laughed at the sound of his own voice,
while the sunlight skipped along the water in his hair.

"The dew sent me to you, the current sent you to me.
So much anticipation.
What awaits us in this place, do you know?"
Then he drank from the spring--
a sweet foreign purity,
for though it was likewise water that had scoured
the innards of his water jug
lo those days in the desert, still
this stuff was entirely different.
And he laughed at himself
for talking to the water,
but not for listening.
No, that was serious.

In the end, he decided that
in this place,
to believe that profound communion
could indeed transpire
between man and the cool sweat of the earth,
why it was completely natural.

And still curious, the man rose to find his city of warriors.