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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Even Before The Daylilies Have Re-opened</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Even before the daylilies have re-opened, <br>walking home in the early morning air, <br>admiring the blue-green petal <br>of the new apple of the dawn, <br>Venus ferociously beautiful, and Jupiter <br>unusually shy by comparison as Aldebaran <br>fades faster in Taurus than either of them <br>in the onrush of light, the town immaculately quiet, <br>and the traffic light feeling robotically unheeded<br>and the bloom off the streetlamps <br>in the parking lot of the new hotel, <br>the cars immobilized in a coma of stillness, <br>how clean and eternal the silence seems, <br>how uncannily pure the bliss of life in the air, <br>as the birds hidden like celebrants in the trees <br>planted along the sidewalks, and in the black walnuts <br>of neglected backyards, sing as if they couldn't <br>contain themselves like old guitars in the corner, <br>or books upon a shelf, that have heard it all before.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Awake at five alone in the morning, <br>a new solitude surrounds the singularity of my sentience<br>and it doesn't really matter what I think<br>anymore than the content of what the birds are singing<br>in a language of their own, I am estranged <br>by the renewal of my own presence<br>in the midst of all this as if in some kind<br>of intimately aloof way, I, too, inexplicably belonged.<br>As did the deserted shops along the street <br>forlornly awaiting the return of people, <br>like abandoned pets or lonely barns. <br>Everything natural and man-made <br>included in the same embrace <br>as if space were mysteriously happy <br>and time gave everything another chance <br>just to feel how sacred it is to exist here at all.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=476559" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The ghosts on the night shift return <br>to their graves with the coffins<br>of their empty lunch pails clutched in their hands, <br>having punched in the same hours as the fireflies and stars<br>and in the rising splendour of the unsayable presence<br>of wholly being here to experience it, denuded <br>of the uses and functions we will assign ourselves <br>later in the day like the smog of insatiable dreams, <br>achieve as much at this intersection of time and the timeless, <br>Foster and the universe, where it doesn't matter<br>if you waited for the light to change <br>before you crossed the street or not<br>because the unseekable waywardness of the moment<br>will do as much to find and renew you spontaneously<br>as you do to be lost and exhausted deliberately<br>as if you always walked in the presence of the dawn <br>even when you let go of its hand or closed your eyes.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Patrick+White">Patrick White</a></strong></div>