(and now, the fog rolls up the river like a cloud–see? the mountain’s gone!)

___________________________________

The Grace of Flight–A Morning Poem
___________________________________

Opening my eyes in the night, I saw

A cloud enveloped the RiverHouse.

A white glow suffused the room

And the round mirror shone, reflecting white light.

“They’ve taken our world away,” said Greg, half-asleep.

***

Rather than oppressing me,

This thick gauze pressing against the windows

Buoyed me as Adriatic saltwater will do,

And the house, inside, felt wildly bright and spacious.

***

As I drifted back to sleep, my dreams

Floated me five meters over the bed where Greg slept still.

I floated, ghost-like, through the interior windows,

From room to room, above the piano,

Around the 5 three-bladed fans,

But safe and warm, bedclothes trailing gracefully

(always graceful, aren’t we, in dreams).

***

In the morning, the sycamore was clear, each leaf damp and orange,

Its white bark shining.

A blue heron gracefully sliced the sky between river and hills, then

Abruptly landed, flat-footed and old age-awkward,

Among the dainty sleek mergansers who coolly slid to another cove.

I walked, a little stiffly, to my chair by the window

To write some words that might suggest (perhaps I should close my eyes and

Recall the cloud) the grace of flight.

***

And here’s a truly graceful “Morning Poem” by Mary Oliver: http://www.michaelppowers.com/wisdom/morningpoem.html

Morning Poem
by Mary Oliver
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches—
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead—
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging—

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted—

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.