Sometime in the night the day stopped growing old and started becoming new. Something was happening in the shadows and we didn't know it. The darkness was preparing us for the day, ripening us in its womb. Pushing us forward to life.
As the first flush of dawn feathered us with her wings, we resisted, turning for comfort to the warmth of our beds, but the day was growing stronger. The spreading light awakening in us a desire for action, for birth.
So the day began. The sun climbed higher and we pursued our labors, creating, planting, sowing, reaping, breaking, mending. Then we started to tire as the light faded. Shadows now crossed the path and our thoughts turned to home.
The growing darkness beckoned us. Drawing us irresistibly forward to our beds and to the closing of our eyes in sleep. The day was weaker now, a memory. The night was our future, our focus, and into its arms we surrendered. Closing our eyes on the day we navigated through the shadows with the eyes of our dreams.
Deeper and deeper we sank into the night's black but fertile soil, in who's hidden workshop we were refreshed, renewed, remade. Until the dark, imperceptibly at first, began to grey, and like a butterfly flexing it's newly formed, yet un-stretched wings, we stirred, ready once again to soar into the new day, to rise again.
As the first flush of dawn feathered us with her wings, we resisted, turning for comfort to the warmth of our beds, but the day was growing stronger. The spreading light awakening in us a desire for action, for birth.
So the day began. The sun climbed higher and we pursued our labors, creating, planting, sowing, reaping, breaking, mending. Then we started to tire as the light faded. Shadows now crossed the path and our thoughts turned to home.
The growing darkness beckoned us. Drawing us irresistibly forward to our beds and to the closing of our eyes in sleep. The day was weaker now, a memory. The night was our future, our focus, and into its arms we surrendered. Closing our eyes on the day we navigated through the shadows with the eyes of our dreams.
Deeper and deeper we sank into the night's black but fertile soil, in who's hidden workshop we were refreshed, renewed, remade. Until the dark, imperceptibly at first, began to grey, and like a butterfly flexing it's newly formed, yet un-stretched wings, we stirred, ready once again to soar into the new day, to rise again.
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