I am a morning person. I love the early hush, and the feeling of time. I’m thankful for the feeling that everything starts again, starts new. So for this week’s Sunday thanks, a morning poem:
The Promise
“Weeping may endure for the night, but joy cometh in the morning.” –Psalms 30:5
Always the sun flooding here gold
and here was a singing. Joy.
Light melts the sky yellow, stains
the shore at ebb tide like a fire
that sears. Some days,
the colors are too bright.
~~~
Dawn wakes you, breaks
its promise, tugs you
into its sorrow.
Birds open the trees.
Night ebbs, takes
its amnesia.
Wind stitches
what it doesn’t steal.
You’ve given everything.
Salt shaker. Chamomile.
A jar of honey.
His voice in your hair.
~~~
Morning rips off any solace,
brings it all back hard–
this desert you wake to,
this terrible hour of sand.
You walk this stony road
like a ghost, an empty dress,
a vapor floating
into unknown territories,
one step and then another.
Learn empty’s hard lessons.
~~~
One dawn, and then another.
The sun spills its fire.
You cannot stop the mourning,
cannot squeeze it out of your eyes.
Days tumble into summer,
each memory a new wound,
knot caught in your throat.
You are that tender.
~~~
Forget-me-nots
in a garden pocket,
a blue abundance,
a bowl of berries,
a cup of tea.
Leaves leave no fortune.
~~~
Just as water streams
down a mountain, reaches
the sea, you will fill again one
drop at a time.
