Solid hand of white
cloud clasps the bare
ridge, a finger
in each cove.
A storm, ready to
heave itself over far mountains,
breathes cold
ahead of its coming.
My warm cheeks
brush stray snowflakes,
quickly turn them
into rain.
Fog blooms
in one lone headlight.
My glasses mimic,
blanching over
the road’s clear lines.
Water in all its forms
inhabits the morning,
its sheen and weight
gloss the ground,
fatten the air.
Drink deep.
In the hour or two after
full light and before
that storm
belly-crawls over
the county line, a
lemon-drop sun will
blot dry the pavement,
wring out the grass,
warm my lenses clear.
Inside this sunrise
the moist lips of the earth
touch each other
kiss me all over
speak to
the fast-approaching day.
Good morning is
a thing all
creatures know how to say.
We on our two legs
with bare faces
and grasping hands
add another:
For this light
this day
my wet skin,
thank you.
Just when I thought my heart was full…
This is beautiful.