Inside Outside \ Facing Morning

Alan:  April is whiplash weather, an ache for new growth, a depleted woodpile: weariness and wanting.

Inside Outside

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,

twitching,

and suddenly think: I am

only alive in this moment,

which has occurred to us all and

which is worth laughing

or crying about

I suppose.

Nancy:  Slow waking on a summer day – my day cued by the sun – the fishermen by the tides.

Facing Morning

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

             before sunrise.

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).