Today’s poem is by me and was published by Plainsongs, a journal of Hastings College Press, last summer, 2019.
How optimistic things felt then, how wide open and expansive. This was many years ago, a whole other lifetime.
Sigh.
Morningtime
God, it is beautiful here sometimes.
When the high, hard heat sweeps across the baked pasture grass
To be tucked away at night with the setting sun;
When the first stars blink in the sky,
Light in points jumping off the river;
When the sun returns at dawn,
Shouting down the birds and waking up the lazy ants and bees;
When the rain pours a deluge,
Turning the backyard into a bog
And tattooing a steady rhythm on
The shingles and peeling painted windows;
When the blankets stir beside me
And your hand fumbles through the crumpled sheets for mine,
Quiet as a leap of faith,
In the sleepy pre-day of morningtime –
Before the dogs are fed and our girl is awake,
Before the insistent chatter of the alarm,
When I reach across the blankets
To meet your fingers.
Be well. Love each other. Wash your hands.