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.
