Archive
12/29/09 - (1)
Measuring Sunrises
As it was, yesterday, and will be, for the next ten a.m.'s, Sunrise is due at precisely 7:50, And with passing weeks, it will burst earlier and earlier,
Until, at the far end of March, when I'm here again, Dawn will have found a new waking hour, In the late six o'clocks.
This morning, brewing coffee, I linger in the dark, Listening to the cabin's conspicuous sounds, Knowing that, though distracting, they sustain me.
The kitchen's refrigerator motor, cycling unpredictably, Doesn't mask the crotchety complaints of the furnace, Which curses me, for my insisting it put in overtime,
As does the water heater, which tells me so, In outspoken, all too certain terms, With its frigid pipes' clanking, knocking, screeching,
Keeping sleep out of easy reach. And yet, I'm happier here, nestled in, beside the lake, Than I've been in a score of disconsolate years.
It all hinges on measuring time by my own calibrations, Not society's expectations, which regulate each tocktick By the dollar signs piling up, minute to minute.
Now, with not quite an hour before sunrise becomes official, The horizon just above the saw-toothed tops Of pines, spruces, leafless maples, ashes, and birches
Is glimmering with an orange-and-rose glow, Just below a near-cloudless layer of cerulean hues That promise to give the emerging sun complete freedom.
Curious, how, from my stifled cityscape locations, I always assume that day and night have a sharp demarcation, That, as in Genesis, there's "dark" and there's "light."
How illuminating it is, for me, to realize, come to believe, That futures arrive not as black-or-white abstractions, Rather in gradations, gradually.
12/29/09 - (1)
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