January morning
by Erika Lorentzsen
[ poetry - july 09 ]
Last night snow rattled
the metal shingles.
Outside shook, flopping
Branches. Dreams danced violet
on the fair side of the dark.
When morning really began,
it should have been afternoon.
When January started,
December flashed so soon
in the belly of the new year.
Now coffee, and the daily ritual
of chopping wood, vegetables, making
the rounds about the house,
are but brief intervals
between messages. Waking
to show the culvert and culprit to you,
as if you're there. The dust is beginning
to gather in your absence.
From the seams of the house
being ripped apart birds made their nest.
By the fire, with the cup
to my lips, I watch the traffic go by,
and your face comes to mind.
Shuffles its way in and flowers
there all around the rubble.
Back in Paris, in the kitchen
tapping away the memory rumples
with bits of tape, cut out photos,
glue, wooden slabs, a name,
no a face, a garden,
candles by the boathouse,
morning in Modigliani's glass shop.
It opens the rib cages of light
iridescent and dazzling.
Without you here, there's less to say.
I can't bear the oceans
for time, like the sea, can't be
so big to just gallop in.
I know that passage I turn to,
return to someday in a stanza,
come back on repeated mornings.
I left upset that I didn't
marvel at the wink,
such undemanding humor.
Once gone, the pipes broke
with words I never wrote,
or said. The lily, the lily, the lily.
It bloomed, With one eye open.
The sun moved
behind morning clouds.
