Alan: April is whiplash weather, an ache for new growth, a depleted woodpile: weariness and wanting.
Standing at the stove,
waiting for the kettle to boil,
I look out on April dusk,
the day’s snow we’re already sick of,
bird feeders rocking in the wind,
strips of bark torn half off the birches,
and suddenly think: I am
only alive in this moment,
which has occurred to us all and
which is worth laughing
or crying about
Nancy: Slow waking on a summer day – my day cued by the sun – the fishermen by the tides.
Too dark to see my watch.
Find my moosehide mocs by scuffing
my feet across the floor.
Check Venus: I’ve time to put the kettle on,
make a pot of coffee, drink the first cup
A few yips from the woods, a bark from
my dog. Scratch of a match.
Last night the big barred owl was hunting,
now she’s shaking her feathers, settling
against the trunk of a fir.
Extraordinary morning star. Mug, cream,
the first best wonderful bitter mouthful.
Across the bay, across the wooded mass
of Crows Neck, in the next bay west,
the stutter of an engine.
Fisherman. I wonder who woke him, got him on
the water so early.
I wonder if he has a thermos of coffee.
Maybe he’s standing there, happy to be
sipping it, one hand on the wheel,
watching the horizon.
Sun just nipping the window. Another cup
in the pot.
“Facing Morning” first appeared in Fencing Wildness (Slow Dancer Press, 1999).