Sipping Coffee by an April Window, 5:30 AM, the First Thyme Sprouts Clearing the Soil in the Starter Tray on the Ledge

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.