Out of Africa

Having recently traveled to Victoria Falls, I am still acclimating to being home. The following was composed at five in the morning in the quaint compound where we stayed for the first leg of our travels.

The night air was cool. My internal clock was still on U.S. Eastern time. I could not believe I was in Africa about to visit the one place I'd always wanted to see.

Daybreak

By Wheston Chancellor Grove

The crow of roosters.

The call of voices for earliest prayers—

A nearby mosque—

footsteps in the dark,

charred particles of air,

invisible smoke

blanketing the stillness of a time and place

at rest without, but never, no never, within.

The morning star just is—

Had I not awakened it would still

be perched high above.

I rose to meet it. The act one-sided.

The star did not present itself to me.

I presented myself to her and the break of day.

My skin illumined. Not by the moon,

but the contrast of being.

A white man in a dark country—

tethered to the heartbreak of his own continent,

his soul’s topography.

I pretend the morning star will fulfill my wish,

but only I can make it (come) true.

The silent request is a human ritual—

A call for strength and blind faith—

to endure the long night until the blue line

of reassurance crests the horizon.

Morning always comes. Pure and consummate.

“Possibility” washes away the desire for

eternal sleep. Everlasting rest.

I tell myself, “Today I will see you

as once you were.”

2015