Morning Poem, January 1, 2015

phone pics 684

the hawk that would not move

the hawk that would not move

New Morning, New Year

It was very cold this morning

As winter mornings ought to be

Just out of bed, and determined to make a good start

I walked east, into the sun, just risen.

The western face of the knoll was still shaded

And as I left the sidewalk for the turf

The crackle of the frozen grass with every step

Was loud enough to startle.

The boggy places at the bottom of the hill

The night had quick-frozen

Leaving the contracted  mud in tiny, rigid formations

Like stalagmites or cells of giant mud daubers

Or the walls and pathways of some miniature, primitive village

All abandoned.

In the woods there was no wind

And dead leaves and dead branches lay on the ground

Without motion or color

As if life had been permanently defeated.

Deer tracks seemingly fossilized

In the hard, narrow trail

The sign of some long-vanished creature?

But on the eastern slope the hour-old sunlight

Had already done its work

The frost was already burned away

And I walked on the grass

Quiet, soft and green

And the air bore the scent of the thawing earth

And I knew the first faint taste of spring.

Copyright 2015

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