Lucid for the first time in months,
the morning came to me with wet feet from the long grass
whispering and praying as it always does.
I spoke to it with a wind chime--
it came in, and the biscuits rose by themselves.
"I have coffee," I said.
"I have me, and a bed made from oak wood and blackbird vines."
Years of waste and winter listened in silent silhouette
as morning spun me a shawl from itself.
Wishing my body into the city where I used to live,
the sight of me struck blind every faker out to get what they could get.
"There she is," they all say, even still,
as eyes turn to milk and milk turns to dust.
"There she is, morning's darling,
the crone who thinks she's beautiful, red hair graying, gone to rust."
__________
for this.
as morning spun me a shawl ... and ... I spoke to it with a windchime... You know, nature truly does embrace aging with a grace we can certainly learn from. The "faker" line is great. I enjoy the big city... surprised how NYC intrigues me - yet I am always happy to leave after a little while. And the "old crone" IS beautiful :)
ReplyDeleteShe is. We are
ReplyDeleteI love the personification of the morning - it establishes the speaker's relationship with that time of day so well... and oh, I just love everything else about it too.
ReplyDeleteWOW! This is such an amazement of a poem, the morning as a being, the bed made of wood and blackbird vines, and the beautiful crone - for she IS beautiful - wih red hair graying, gone to dust. I dont know how you think of such stellar images. It is a gift.
ReplyDeletewow! what a superb tour de force! great imagery that just begs for the attention it rightly deserves ~ I especially like the idea of calling on/back on the crone, the one perhaps banished to revisit old haunts; the power and beauty within the message -
ReplyDeletegreat "marriage" of metaphors in this poem - "wickedly wild" = absolute delight :D
Love everything written here, wonderful!
ReplyDeleteThere is something both melancholy and triumphant about this, and it sifts into the consciousness lightly, like falling leaves, bright and graceful. Beautiful work, Shay. I especially like the second stanza.
ReplyDeleteWow. My new fave of yours. I too love the wickedly wild...I have been feeling that as fall beckons. You speaking to the morning as a wind chime. Sigh... I love that. I truly love love love that. The crickets have gone silent hushed by the chill. I miss their windchime chirps. This speaks to me of this season - the wildness, the melancholy, the balancing act of sun and frost.
ReplyDeleteYes, triumphant. I love this.
ReplyDeleteI feel such a sense of peace and contentment after reading this:
ReplyDelete--- I spoke to it with a wind chime--
it came in, and the biscuits rose by themselves.
"I have coffee," I said.
"I have me, and a bed made from oak wood and blackbird vines."
Years of waste and winter listened in silent silhouette
as morning spun me a shawl from itself. ---
That's the key --- thinking you're beautiful, no matter what anyone else thinks. Cut them all off/out if you have to. But don't ever stop seeing your own worth.