Before the Bright, Pink Morning

I don't think the dark night could forgive me
Should I pass through its shadows without quickening my pace or
If I neglected to pause by the woods to see the moon snuffed out by the trailing clouds
Though there is no storm
Or the moonlight removed from the leaves, inked to black, 
The infinite maze of branches bobbling somewhere in the breeze, though I can no longer see them 

All things are coming apart at the seams and always held together
And though you and I are passing through, we at least slow down enough to see how marvelous the evening is
The mystery unfurling on every side like a flood that will not subside until it has searched out every mountain copse and crevice and every far divide 

We have so many reasons now to take ourselves less seriously
And in that laughter—that bright, sad joy—everything finally feels of its true weight, at last, its right size 
Not heavy, not suffocating, 
Just warm and rising like a night heavy with its own invocation
And the necessity to give vent to all its prayer 
Before the bright pink morning