In the quiet
splendor of a predawn morn
the moon gilds the hoophouse in shiny opulence.
Lace riven configurations circle the sky
with the moon at their apex high above the earth
circling quiet, like a giant snow globe—
how
could one ever think this world flat?
And I, an inconsequential ant of a being
Invades the quiet on a shuffle across the frozen grass
in my husband’s boots and a hand-me-down coat
and my daddy’s hat with the flashlight of my mother’s trepidation
in
my pocket just in case.
But if you walk in the dark you see the dark,
the dark a friend if you see it thus,
but chickens need light as much as scratch and
I flick the switch in the pumphouse to juice one newly
installed that said husband thinks will fool
them
into thinking we've reached beyond the darkest day
but they only blink and murmur and stir on their roost.
An owl hootsfrom a branch with blood on his mind
and I stop to gaze upwards in dizzying amaze
at the splendor of this quiet morn there for all to
see if we but look up.
Happy Thanksgiving. May it be a peaceful one.
Reminded to be thankful (and praising) by Brendan at Earthweal,
with his shared story of the Austrian poet Rilke...
And if the earthly no longer knows your name
whisper to the silent earth: I'm flowing. To the flashing water say: I am.