From deep sleep

I am awakened-

Not suddenly

As though someone has driven a shaft

Into the sleeping chambers of my mind

And pried me into consciousness,

But, by a stirring.

From a distant wooded hill

A mourning dove


Unlike most sounds of waking day

Its call is one of mystery

A call that falls more nearly

On chambered heart than drumming ear.

It is this that stirs my sleeping mind,

And bit by bit leads me

Through narrowing corridors of sleep,

Until with sudden consciousness,

I lift my eyes to look upon a waking world.

Yet, one thing I cannot escape-

Your call is a beckoning call-

To what?

© by J. Vance Eastridge