This Light We Call Morning

radiates from a rising sun, paints western horizon

slips through blinds slat by slat, slivers of hills

valleys, cloud mountains banked against night

a bit of borrowed light in quarter moon


tiny black and white downy woodpeckers

cling to seed cakes as the dark blanket slides

from the land as if gathered by some giant

hand, gathered silk falling onto the other side

wrapping Auckland, Beijing, Rio


buds fall from red maples after the hard freeze

daffodils droop waiting for mid-morning sun

seeds remain burrowed deeply in the whiskey

barrels, kale and lettuce, Bloomsdale spinach

all waiting for their own morning


such a simple word and with but a /u/

inserted even a sad one, sprites still wanting

to cavort with owls around hidden fires

even mockingbirds surprised after singing

into the wee hours on the ridgepole


but with the spinning of the globe

this light we call morning arrives again and again

dappled, filtered, cloudy, dancing through woods

silvering the waters in bay and creek and pond

our very eyes.