Thursday, October 21, 2010

John Gray

DRY                                          .

Snails crawl across the path,                                           
slicking the earth as they go.
A spider hangs from its web
like a jewel of dew.
The last of the rain
makes up my mind for me.
I will venture on.
The clouds will break.
The sun will towel me.
The birds fly back to life.
The bugs emerge.
The chill of my skin
takes comfort in crow caw,
dragonfly hum.

The rain is water
off a pond's back.
Fish leap and hang the consequence
A great blue heron
listens in on its next meal.

The drizzle clears
but trees continue to sprinkle.
A leaf cup of rain
tips all over me.
The oak has been waiting
for just such an opportunity.
I laugh at myself.
The heart is first to dry.


Tonight, I navigate the ocean of sleep,
my heart as sails.
Cross the surface of the dark,
I glide between the sheets, the love,
the buoyant mattress, the belief.
A good wind of forty years behind,
and an open sea of dreams ahead,
why shouldn’t I take my vaunted place
atop that creamy blue horizon.
Distance, time, fold under my fabled rudder.
I go where the good night takes me.
I wake and here I am.


It's always been this way.
Blue jays squawk at 5 a.m.
Song sparrows live up to their name
with a burst of sudden six o'clock trilling.
A solitary chickadee skews the melody
with its chirpy downward scale.
A titmouse sounds its "peter peter",
calling for a mate
or the sun.
It's all for my benefit I believe.
Better that than a jarring clock radio,
or the boisterous shake
from the household's morning bully.
My life is lived
at the behest of birds.
My eyes open with their permission.
My body unravels on their sweet say-so.
My head clears, note for note.