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.