Sunlight crisp through bare almost-spring trees and
the air still March cool except here,
this circle around us, hot coffee and
eggs and toast, birds breakfasting on seeds,
last summer’s flowers watching us with interest.
Inspired by such a morning and Basho’s haiku:
I am one
who spends his breakfast
gazing at morning glories
Porcelain turban, layered wedding cake, snail shell.
Abandoned riverside by a racoon whose tracks
in the silt look like baby’s hands
that held the wood-grained case this morning –
a smooth white delicacy, a freshwater breakfast.
Wings trembling over the shimmering filigree coverlet –
a maiden’s bed, empty in morning sunlight.
Gravity, a weak force, leaves us alone.
We are falling. We are flying. No,
not really flying, or even falling. Floating.
This morning light has a gray filter
of clouds and a coolness unlike August.
The hole in this summer doesn’t cut
the gray. I just want quiet sleep,
sweet dreams when this long trick’s over.
The hand, whose cold touch awakens me,
is from a dream, and dream becomes
waking and my hand is cold and fat,
still sleeping, and astonished under warm water.
Pinpricks of consciousness, splinters of first sunlight.