May morning be astir with the harvest of night;
Your mind quickening to the eros of a new question,
Your eyes seduced by some unintended glimpse
That cut right through the surface to a source.

 

May this be a morning of innocent beginning,
When the gift within you slips clear
Of the sticky web of the personal
With its hurt and its hauntings,
And fixed fortress corners,

 

A Morning when you become a pure vessel
For what wants to ascend from silence,

 

May your imagination know
The grace of perfect danger,

 

To reach beyond imitation,
And the wheel of repetition,

 

Deep into the call of all
The unfinished and unsolved

 

Until the veil of the unknown yields
And something original begins
To stir toward your senses
And grow stronger in your heart

 

In order to come to birth
In a clean line of form,
That claims from time
A rhythm not yet heard,
That calls space to
A different shape.

 

May it be its own force field
And dwell uniquely
Between the heart and the light

 

To surprise the hungry eye
By how deftly it fits
About its secret loss.

 

-John O'Donohue,