Morning Posting
Ingredients:
Strong early coffee,
A functional breath
(However ragged
That breath might be),
A shard of a feeling,
At least a fragment
Of a thought or word,
But if not this last
Then a bemused disposition
To listen to the beating heart.
And such words shock me
Like the shock of having a wall,
Leaned on, give way
To become an opening gate
Into a morning garden,
Not Yeats’s bee loud glade,
No, not that, not yet,
And it’s the edge of the not yet
That so thrills me, calls me
To take yet another step
Into a space
Where a breeze blown robe of words,
A disclosing cloak of sounds,
Wraps my now moving body
As I do what dance I can,
A dance of age in a spring time realm,
A song sung, and a falling down
Among the new blooms,
Beneath the blue sky.
—–
(As I age, I find that–sometimes for the first time in fact– I lean against a wall for support and find it opening into a new realm. Being open to the support of the cosmos may be one of the chief blessings of getting older.
As long as I’m busy solving everything on my own, I can’t possibly connect with the world as an equal. Treating the external world as a resource for satisfying my own agendas, I make it lifeless. And although the world may appear to go along with my attempts to control it, it always seems to keep its best treasures hidden. –Michael)