God Time

Nothing quite as pristine

As a nap and tea

In secret—

Afternoons,

When others have forgotten

The day's private gift,

The lost Sacred Teaching

Of Siesta.

The last of the sun's full brilliance

Leaking through leaves,

Or blinds. Blinding,

But delightfully so.

I am bathed,

Caressed, teased,

With warmth.

God time.

Monasteries the world over

Swear by the offering of pre-dawn

For its closeness to the Divine.

Clearly they've

Yet to hear of this.

The call, the resplendent

Soundless voice

Of late afternoon—

Making

Priests, monks, shamans, sheiks,

Resemble

Used car salesmen.

I implore you—

Stare into the sky

Before our Friend takes its leave.

Exiting stage left, the

Next act approaching.

And as I lay, both

Heavy and light,

Living the moment's perfection,

I think that

Even if the best of friend

From far away

Whom I hadn't seen in years

Were slated to arrive,

Part of me would silently scream

In my still ecstasy,


Please don't come.