Cool morning.
Immense silence makes its case against the cacophony of the waking day.
The squirrels are mounting an offense against sobriety and solemnity.
They dart among trees, race and chase,
flouncing their luxurious rodent tails through the undergrowth.
The sun cracks its rays against stone
and the fractured light dances muddy colors in a puddle on the patio.
The neighbor’s two dogs play flags with their semaphore tails
wagging a message of joy. When the alphabet fails them they bark.
A chipmunk in the wood pile parses the syntax of dog grammar
as she plots her first move of the day.
Flowers, stifled for hours in shadow,
now fill her tiny bright eyes with red and yellow.
How can one not be astonished on a morning such as this?
Once the forces of light have broken the dam of night
and loosed a polyglot gush of sensation,
what malignant busyness could lessen my delight?
What is next to do
but to mold a cup of language to catch the flow.
And you, dear friend, I hand the cup to you.
Drink from it.
Pour it over your head.
Wash your face.
Clean your mind before it gets sticky with concern.
Scrub your hands so you can for a short while touch the morning without smudging it with history.
And,
as you feel the wonder cool in your imagination, dip your finger into sunshine and reignite the fire.