Wings beating sleep from my alpha
state leave a slight hum on the air.
I am petulant, but not fool enough
to resist the tug. Must I go plays
at the back of my heart. You cannot
stay helps me to rise.

Pieces of something clinical, sterile,
have been scattered like bread crumbs,
and I assume they are there to guide me
to the temple of my truths.

Paths of beryl and turquoise,
baths of jasmine and hyssop,
songs of wind and fire
purify the longing to be whole

and I submit to the waters
as I wade into the pool of light
carried on the hum of beating wings
singing my morning's alpha song.