Am I just one of few who notice how and what the early morning light plays up? How it shines like a spotlight on one object or like this a.m., just a shaft quietly insisting "look at me". I feel I'm in good company when my favorite female poet has also found inspiration in the morning light.
Morning Light
Every morning
the good news
pours
through the field
touching
every blossom
every stem
and each of them,
on the instant
offers to be part of it—
offers to lift and hold, willingly
the vast burden of light
all day.
In my life
I have never seen it to fail—
flower after flower
leaf after pearly leaf,
to the acre,
to the massy many,
is silvered, is flooded;
and such voices
spangle among it—
larks and sparrows—
all those small souls—
are everywhere
tossing the quick wheels of pleasure
from their red throats
as they hang on—
as though on little masts
of golden ships,
to the tops of the weeds—
and that’s when I come—
that’s when I come, crying out to the world:
oh give me a corner of it
to lift also, to sing about, to touch
with my wild hands—and they do.
Not long after the stone butterfly my daughter-in-law Shelly gave me was highlighted, I saw my first black swallowtail of the year. I took that as another sign, just in case I had missed the first one.
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