Minor Morning 


I am one who waits in the minor morning 
which has the silence 
of a stone, a minor morning 
with the heaviness of a stone, a minor morning 
with the silent song of stone 
in the less-than-wished-for minor morning. 
In this less than light we know as morning 
the first of solar fire 
seems delayed, the immensest kiss of fire 
which will break the minor morning 
seems delayed, the strings 
of yellow light not yet strings 

which could sound, strings 
silent in the minor morning-
like guitar strings 
unstrung, or mandolin strings 
in silence, 
mandolin propped on a shelf, or strings 
like the strings 
of a lyre, the player asleep on stone, 
strings as heavy as stone, 
strings 
of the kiss of the immensest fire. 
I am one who waits for this fire 

to erase a fire 
from a star expelling light in strings 
of fire, 
star perched in air like a pin on a map, a minor fire 
in the minor morning. 
As I wait a fire 
from night's rage dies in my heart, a fire 
which falls to silence 
and the silence 
is full, and the fire 
fades to have the sound of a stone, 
but not the heaviness of a stone, 
for a stone 
has the silence 
of a song not sung and a stone 
has the heaviness of that song, a stone 
like a song stuck in the chest, unsung. Strings 
of the throat which could sing out the stone 
of song and the heaviness of the stone 
in the minor morning 
before the morning 
we know as morning (without the heaviness of stone) 
these strings do not sing, for they are in silence 
as a stone is in silence. 

I am one who waits in this silence 
still as a stone. 
I watch in silence 
and this heavy, heavy silence 
is like a kiss without fire. 
The silence 
unready for song builds to a greater silence. 
Then the strings 
of that great lyre of morning approach, strings 
of the morning 
we know as morning, 
not the minor morning. 

Morning 
silence 
gives way to wind over stone.
Fire!
I play my strings. 

(originally published in Friends of Poetry)