Not just another morning, but a root
that stirs the light of things,
a somewhere to place the foot upon
and look. Why think of lost steps,
or of the need to know what one is after
the plain solicitude for life?
Why crowd the logical order of things,
to suffer pain like a tendon lamed,
perhaps played out?
Let not the morning remain behind
as a poem, to be questioned
like a misdeed or some trophy
to be understood. There,
the kestrel is just another still leaf
on a branch, hope in its eye,
fully dressed and waiting,
but not for some light or meaning
to come. Just another morning,
and my neighbor’s wave of greeting
is a gift, entering
my body without reason or belief.
The light stirs the leaves of March,
a truckful of newly made bricks
pulls up nearby.
Love: let me not try to defend myself.
If this love of mine is light, a grace,
let it be unimportant and uninteresting
to inspire me through the long way
into nowhere, to tell them I am here.
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