To the Reader

What will it take to make these words speak fire? Not words alone, not prophecies of grace, or terrorized last cries before the whirlwind;

no urgent speech at all, but merely time, a moment most familiar close to dawn: the bedroom almost home, the hairbrush oddly bristling on the dresser -- and you, awakening, before it all floods back, to everything unnamed, the fiery clarity we grasp before the darkness of the day.