To Work

Cold morning, early Spring, awakened

by birds outside the doors and walls –

I stood up rested, drove the 30 miles

to Monroe, window half-down, freezing wind

pushing past my face, sky waking up, too,

a kind of lit-white color, semi-bordered

by a few clouds, their edges brilliant and gold.

That rested feeling I want to talk about,

dreams floating backwards in the mind

just waking up, as you open your eyes

and had already been hearing birds outside

chirping and chirping (“bare ruined choirs…”)

in your dreams, the haunted bird-song,

echoing down the corridors of selves,

like water moving, trees waving and swaying, recognizable

images that on second glance

become alien – as if by the time you turned your head

the trees and wind had changed again

and again, which they had, visibly or invisibly,

concealing or revealing.  Sometimes I feel inexplicable

wonder about being alive


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