after Jane Kenyon

So much can happen
every day.
Let morning come.

When my single-car-garage brain
raises it door
to let persona me
roll out its engine
into the reality it makes
with numerous neuronal purrs,
my eyes flutter open,
see bedstead
see lamp and textured wall,
my spine unfurls, hinges,  
legs swing over,
feet find left,  right,
merge with slippers,
all is good and right.
Let morning come.

In the kippered kitchen light
electrons in water molecules
within the kettle
take heat to higher orbits
of change and dance
the dance of boil.
Pour out my cup,
whisper blow the steam,
nothing is more satisfying,
more pure than the first sip
of every day
and all is good and right.
Let morning come.

So much can happen
every day
that doesn't--
an errant late or early
harbinger of phone
ringing in news of demise,
what the radio says,
the missed commuter train,
traffic,
accidents of steel and glass,
wars.
Let morning come.

The bird flies
and does not sing.
The bird lands
and sings.
Sometimes text brings good reports--
the coveted prize won by a friend,
an uncle's travel to Ireland,
a sale on your favorite sheets.
Let morning come.

If the sun, if the storm, if the wind
let morning come.
Each breath buttons, unbuttons, rebuttons.

There's molasses fog combing the alder trees,
fallen Fairie rose petals flutter in a dry fountain,
a cat on the sofa snores in the rhythm of the rain.
So much can happen
every day
and does.
Let morning come.

© Lana Hechtman Ayers.
Used with the author's permission.