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Sipping
Coffee by an April Window, 5:30 AM, the First Thyme Sprouts Clearing the Soil
in the Starter Tray on the Ledge
Being a
basket case so long so young, and then
recurrently ever since—nothing
to wish
on anyone...still, the anguish of
prolonged early dark can (at best)
deform
the programmed heart toward lit spaces,
i.e.
toward unstriven joy and thankful observance.
Barred
from youth’s healthy oblivion
and outthrust, one inspects (unless
left
eyeless) the givings inside a smaller circle.
Learns,
prematurely, the splendour of sipping
a cup of joe right-mindedly:
knowing
what you feel, feeling where you are.
Breathing
for some minutes without panic.
Without desire for else.
Where
not mere slag or shard, mind forges strong
caution
by having to ask, second by second:
Is this true? Is this so?
It
kills, of course, this grateful vigilance, normal
drives
and pathways to success (or their
originary lack helped steer
the
first sirens?) and—a deeper loss—
the
means of sharing others’ dreams other
than with courteous sympathy, as
shimmering
mirages you’ve seen too, and yes,
felt their swoony blue pull.
Miniature
green violins emerge from glistening black,
tiny tuning knobs first. First lights
come on
in the Latimer, early shifts. These are
the
great, permanent gains. And against what
losses really? Buzzings in and out
of the dry gray cone of conformity—
ceaseless
crawlings of alien thoughts, alien desires.
Milky
light makes it through thick cloud, hovers
silkily above the yet-unburied, urging
them
gently up. This late spring patient, undeterred.
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