There is no trumpeter calling: No
angelic figure in the clouds calling down
commanding me to scratch at my coffin,
claw through earth until I see the sun again.

It is only me, waiting in the heavy dark,
listening for the thrum of body and blood,
willing shackled eyes to burst open
as I dream of what it might be to stand again.

Waiting, waiting until I feel the strength to say
I want to stand so tall I’m towering above the treeline.
I want to hold the sun like it’s a great, gold coin.