Early fog drew me from sleep
to bind me at pond’s edge,
awaiting the slow slither of light
up pearlescent curtains of morning.
Mesmeric motions of radiant mist
set the scene for the sun’s slow ascent,
moving from flat gray to pulsing gold so quickly
that I must stay to see the sky fill
so that I can believe the magic.
Green appears from the darkness,
lightens, begins to sing over the water,
soars into the blue, brandishing sparklers
like kids on the Fourth of July.
Here and there thin stalks of last year’s grass
cluster in fading clumps of memory
while the colors warm, leaving resonating shadows
beneath the trees. Clouds briefly blush rose
then hurry along to shake out the morning
over the marsh. Birdsong and insect buzz
begin to fill the remaining cracks.
Heat stirs the breeze while the scarce-grown sun
dallies among the pines, and the scents of dry twigs
and cool damp make their small bicker for my notice.
I myself am the canvas for the small sounds and smells,
for the day’s colors and forms,
the antenna for the waves of well-being and care
that envelop me and this place and this world.