Himalayan Morning

‘Knock, and the door shall be opened.’
—Jesus

By Ken Woodley

Wisps of steam rise
from a morning cup of tea
like a secret
coded message from
far away beyond the foothills
as I sit waiting in the shrouding darkness
for the risen light,
praying that a new day will dawn
bright enough
for me to finally see it
and believe.

Deciphering the translation
of this ticking moment,
wisps of my desperate spirit follow
because they want no other choice,
rising through my earthly clouds
like Everest dreamers
touching the bottom
of the sky,
but no longer
as if they were doubting disciples
fingering the wounds of heaven
to see if they are real.

Atop this summit
I plant my flag.

Your peaks are all around me now
pointing toward the sun.


‘Knock, and the door shall be opened.’
—Jesus
By Ken Woodley

Wisps of steam rise
from a morning cup of tea
like a secret
coded message from
far away beyond the foothills
as I sit waiting in the shrouding darkness
for the risen light,
praying that a new day will dawn
bright enough
for me to finally see it
and believe.

Deciphering the translation
of this ticking moment,
wisps of my desperate spirit follow
because they want no other choice,
rising through my earthly clouds
like Everest dreamers
touching the bottom
of the sky,
but no longer
as if they were doubting disciples
fingering the wounds of heaven
to see if they are real.

Atop this summit
I plant my flag.

Your peaks are all around me now
pointing toward the sun.

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