A book arrives when you invite it

some part of you within

awake while you lay still deep sleep dreaming

 

A voice calls out in whisper or shouts

some part that’s missing

maybe unknown or things you thought you already figured out

 

A wave from a small open hand raised from

some boat adrift in high waves

inviting a stranger wandering alone on the beach

 

An open mouth changing shape singing

some song you have yet to hear

whose melody awaits you to write it when your rhythm is more clear

 

A bark in the distance on a dark night of falling stars

some yellow dog howling at its own shadow

loneliness and euphoria converging in his throat

 

A book arrives when the windows are open

some butterfly or raging tiger

pausing there on your sill, equally prepared for sunrise or the end.