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Posts Tagged ‘morning’




Just after sunrise,
I hear it, the bright airy trill
of the red-winged blackbird—
and before my eyes
are even open,
I feel a wild resonance
with the waking world,
the certainty I belong
to this day with its rising sun
and scent of green grass,
its breeze reaching in
through the screens;
I belong to this day
with my creature heart
that already this morning
longs to hold what it cannot,
longs to comfort others,
even knowing how
sorrow must be felt.
I belong to the song
of the red-winged blackbird
as it calls out again,
belong to the silence
as he waits for an answer.
And waits. And waits.
I belong to the spring
every bit as much
as I belong to winter.
This is perhaps
the conundrum of love,
no matter how strong the ache,
we still belong
to the world of beauty,
this world that calls to us
even in our sleep,
wakes us with a promise
strung like audible garland
across the dawn—
you belong, you belong.

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A Gentle Grief




Thin clouds smear against clear sky
like questions in white chalk being erased

or like streaks of tears
just before they have evaporated.

On this sun-glorious morning,
steeped in blue, I am crying.

Is it strange grief does not bother me?

The river is higher again today
as the snow from high peaks starts to melt.

I stare at the spot on the bank
where we used to stand and throw rocks,

squealing with pleasure
as the water splashed and formed rings.

The kingfisher clicks as he follows the shoreline,
his beak a needle stitching this moment

to the past. I, too, am melting,
melting into this generous morning,

forgetting who I am, then remembering again,
everything blurs, oh this beautiful dissolution,

the tears almost cool, the sun so warm.

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There will be weather.
There will be some measure of light.
The earth will not pause, will not stop
in its spinning. The morning
will stretch into night.
And whatever I feel,
I won’t feel it forever.
And whatever I love
will someday be lost—
no matter how well I love it,
no matter my hopes,
no matter how tightly I grasp.
But the love itself, love
can continue to grow
in ways that defy
what I think I know—
if only I tend it, meet it.
And the mountains around me
are falling down.
Somewhere else,
mountains are being made.
Our Milky Way Galaxy,
sure in its course, will collide
with Andromeda Galaxy someday.
That someday will not be today.
Today there will be thousands of chances
to choose to be generous.
I am what I give.
I have a love light to carry.
Gravity wins.
Today is the day to live.

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Amnesia


So lucky sometimes,
like today, to wake
and say to the world
I love you.
On these mornings,
almost impossible
to remember it is ever
any other way—
 
impossible to believe
I could wake and say
anything besides
thank you, I am grateful,
good morning blue sky,
good morning old limbs.

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Make the most of peace.
            —Holiday Mathis, horoscope February 9, 2021


This morning I wake to notice
that nothing hurts. I notice
I am warm beneath the comforter
and the air in the house is cool on my face
and the only sound is a chickadee at dawn
singing its two-note “sweetie” song.

There are mornings I wake already stunned
by the pain of the broken world,
but this morning, I lie for a while
in quiet and savor the thin trace of first light
as it develops grays in the room, savor
the rhythmic rise and fall of my own chest,
savor the feel of my palm on my belly,
welcome its slight weight, its small warmth.

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making you a bouquet

of morning light—

leaving it at your doorstep

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One Marvel

after Issa

common as morning

this love and yet

and yet

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With Amazement

–listening to Erik Satie’s Gnosienne #2

 

stepping into morning

as if it is a song

each footstep a note—

all day I tiptoe through spaces and lines

all day I am wondrously held by the rests

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Before the sun rises the first day of school

the only sounds in the house are the fish tanks

as it bubbles, the rush of the river outside the window,

and the soft motor of the cat as she makes biscuits on my lap.

Even the kitchen is quiet, save the intermittent hum

of the fridge. All day, I will try to remember this,

how quiet it is, how full of peace, a great score

on which any note can be written.

 

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when it’s morning,

when the birds are already

weaving music through the trees.

Easier when the dew

still shines on the leaves

and the world is warming.

In these ripening moments,

it’s hard to remember,

was it only hours ago,

how darkness poured over you

like oil in the ocean.

How nothing seems possible then.

But here, here is the bright red neck

of morning, humming through the shadows

on emerald wings, and here you are,

rising to meet it, not even

because you want to, but

because something in you rises

and carries you with it into the day.

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