John Wentworth morning people Like the twisting, turning path that at last breaks into a clearing where you can sit among wildflowers, and the cacophony of noise along the path at last disperses into calls of birds and leaf rustlings that you can isolate and truly hear, the hours of another day and sleepy night bring you at last to another early morning and to the worship of the stillness of the moment. How is it that the you you most truly are is so concealed? When along the path so many stop to talk and listen? When so many truly care to know who you are? How is it that they never know? This pencil, this crack in the window glass, this dead flower— pick any image you like— is not the same in the stillness of the morning as it is at night and for anyone who fails to understand this, well, they can try to understand you as hard as they will, but they will never get it right.
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John Wentworth
SIXFOLD POETRY WINTER 2013