Make your own bell if you need to,
invent a sound that will not let you rest,
one that touches your morning
with bright mourning,
the tragic joy of life that is death that is life,
listen to it
calling you to rise.
Stand to whatever real posture you can,
crumple in to the authenticity
that can carry you onwards,
make room for the tolling of the gong.
Faint or strong,
the carillon of your days
is making music
and longs to be heard.