Places to Wake Up

10152019_10203008569791746_2412226512187545378_nI start the day facing East
and the trees–
this wasn’t always true.
Other days–your city stoop,
watching the sun come up
over the tops of buildings
of downtown Phoenix,
or crouching on the beach
before the longest horizon,
groaning in an overheated
rented room on West 78th Street
where daylight didn’t bother
with the air shaft but rose
over a river I couldn’t see.
Then there was the garden
in San Miguel de Allende
with its bougainvillea
and packs of dogs
howling at daybreak,
the rain that pounded against
my door like a waking dream,
the railroad bed by the lake
in Burlington where I’d run
away so early in the mornings,
alternate parking days in Somerville
and first light at Porter Square,
riding the train, watching the sculls
glide so swiftly down the Charles
on my way to workshops
with some attempts at poems
and the sun glinting like a hint
of some other future,
and of course the years
of jog strollers and front packs
and singsong soothing
go to sleep baby walks
as the world woke all around,
the hiss of the radiator
in my parents’ kitchen
where I rattled off dreams,
my mother in her robe drinking tea,
my father in his robe reading
The Sunday Times, ranting,
the wedding pages and luxury houses
I’d circle in red, long before
I’d learned of recycling or reality.
Mornings and I go way back
through the world and time,
and yes, there are so many
places to wake up and begin.
Today, it’s me and the trees again,
sheets clammy from changing
bodies and broken sleep,
and–my favorite–these birds
that sing, without need
to remember any spring
before, happy maybe, just to build
new nests with useful debris
and baby mouths to feed,
so hungry we all must be
for the possibilities
a new morning brings.

7 thoughts on “Places to Wake Up

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