I Remember Mornings

 

Sunnrise over the inlet

I remember mornings
when I would wake early, in time
to see scarlet wings spread across the sky
over the inlet,
mornings when my wolf-dog huffed
with impatience, waiting
for our walk on the beach.

I remember earlier mornings,
when I woke the kids with Abba on the stereo,
or by tapping the keys 
of my old Underwood,
writing another poem,
the shush-shush-shush of the sprinkler
whispering through the kitchen window,
watering the small tender sprouts
of spring.

I remember mornings, so early,
so tired, heading off to
one or the other of my jobs.
I remember boating to work
past small islands and eagles, and how
the moon would be disappearing
on my left, while the sun
was rising in the east.
I was tired, even then,
but, as always,
enraptured by the beauty.

I remember mornings
in my porch swing, sipping tea,
two dogs at my feet,
listening to the wind chimes:
one sounding like church bells,
the other bamboo, clacking,
making me think of Africa.

And now mornings find me
shaky, still tired, a bit unsteady,
but grateful to be here.
I take my tea outside,
sit in the sun,
watch the busy working world
go by, content enough
in my rocking chair,
just watching the blossoms fall,
eagles flying over,
another May unfolding its delights:
cherry blossoms, coral rhodos,
smiling people walking grinning dogs.
I wave as they
go by.