Sunday Mountain Morning

Good morning, sun.
Good morning, mountain,
sleeping in the sun.
I am newly new this morning,
and so I sing,
good morning, precious world.
No matter now, mares of night,
dragging me through hell.
No matter cold, chomping my bones.
No matter my aching throat,
fighting back barbarians.

I am alive on this very newest of mornings,
and so I sing, as I am bound to do–
drowsy volcanoes;
swallows playing with the rough winds;
overseeing all, the heavily pregnant clouds;
fragrant garden panting for their parturition;
beloved, welcome sun,
sparking color to life–red flag,
green field, yellow wall, sea-blue sky,
neighbors’ dogs like white mops,
picking out random terra cotta tiles,
clean laundry, yellow taxi,
Ilumán’s* roofs rising from the shadows.

This mountain morning opens to me,
in silence, drenched in possibility–
What shall we play today?


*neighboring town on the side of Vulcán Imbabura