GLORY

1.
 
Here and there the windows of early
risers blink on while trees,
back-lit in amber, slowly
people the landscape.  You may hear the cough
of a fox from the distant wood or see
a lone heron circle and drop
behind the brake of weedy grasses
sheltering one end of the creek.
This is the way the day begins.
 
What there is to see I see.
What there is to hear I hear— 
the grove of bamboo gossiping in the wind,
the attentive oak bending to its whispers,
a songbird loudly proclaiming the morning.
 
I, too, am that bird.
I, too, lift my reedy vowels
across the burnished holly, rusty pods
of fern, a red blaze of winterberry,
the willow that weeps for the ancient stones
of the creek, its waters’ ceaseless quarrels.
 
2.
 
Above the din of early traffic,
above the cries of children being bundled
into cars reluctantly or running for the bus
or leaping to the impatient bark of a horn— 
above a world in flight around me— 
the pulse of the living earth quickens.
Can you not feel it beating?  Does the hawk
feel the breath of the earth beneath its wings?
 
This is the way the day begins.
 
3.
 
Do I not waken to its diurnal rhythms,
the insistent pulse of the living earth:
the fox on its morning prowl along the creek
(a rabbit frozen in fear under the holly),
telltale signs of the deer
that strolled nonchalantly through my garden— 
each print of a hoof, every nipped bud— 
the staccato of a woodpecker marking time?
 
I could be that fox, alert to the least
stir of a leaf.  I could be the timid rabbit
(all inhibition) waiting to break cover.
Do I not shadow the foraging deer as it picks
its way through my begonias, the emboldened
squirrel hanging precariously from the tip
of a branch to reach the last of its fruit?
Dare I echo the ruby-throated woodpecker?
Or the bruit of geese streaming overhead?
                      
4.
 
Will I be heard above the clamor?  No matter!
Let my voice mingle and drift where it may— 
my song but one among the songs of the earth
calling and every living thing.  Let my answer
be the song of the snake coiling in the sun,
the song of the groundhog sitting on its haunches,
the song of grackles sweeping across the lawn.
I ride on the wings of morning, the day
fragrant with promise!  This is my time— 
time to drink deeply from the well,
time to eat the whole peach.
 
5.
 
The sweetened earth exhales the damp
odors of spring.  Bulbs burgeon.
I stalk the daffodil, the first crocus.
I talk to the clouds, I confide in the wind.
If someone were to listen, would I care?
I am too old to care.
I have no time for the opinion of others.
Does the songbird sing to be heard
or does it sing for the sheer rapture of singing?
 
How the earth renews itself!  Tired
grievances, regrets scatter with yesterday’s leaves.
 
This is the way the day begins.
 
6.
 
I listen for the wind—if there be music
I will hear it.  And if there be beauty
I will find it waiting to be found.
Or I will shape it from what I take into my hand.
From the stones I will learn the wisdom of patience.
Like them I will abide.  I will cultivate my garden
and I will move to the rhythms of the living earth.
I will listen to my heart and I will sing
when I cannot help but sing, and glory— 
glory!—for this is the morning of my life,
and this is the way the day begins.