POEMS/ Morning
Morning
First light. A few cars rumble
past, a solitary jay complains
from the tall pine, a muffled runner
moves thin determined legs
along the dark road. The air feels
cold and empty, with nothing
to show that I was here, whirl
of the wind’s passing. The fox
leaves his scent on the tree roots
for the world to smell, while I
have made few tracks in the earth’s
mud, left none of my hair caught
in the barbed wire around the pasture
from a daring leap for the freshness
of spring buds, my voice drowned
by chattering finches in the bare birch.
From Migrations (Antrim House, 2013)
First light. A few cars rumble
past, a solitary jay complains
from the tall pine, a muffled runner
moves thin determined legs
along the dark road. The air feels
cold and empty, with nothing
to show that I was here, whirl
of the wind’s passing. The fox
leaves his scent on the tree roots
for the world to smell, while I
have made few tracks in the earth’s
mud, left none of my hair caught
in the barbed wire around the pasture
from a daring leap for the freshness
of spring buds, my voice drowned
by chattering finches in the bare birch.
From Migrations (Antrim House, 2013)
