Despite the moon, nearly full, gliding six inches above the western horizon where that faint line of a Great Lake lies, my couple of cardinals amidst the etched gray of sunrise say it’s morning, and all the little birds believe them. Despite me, nearing fifty, holding two inches before hitting the midway in a life as long as it ought to be, my tired, allergic eyes below a gray sketch of wild hair see it’s morning, and all the giddy cells believe them. Despite this near-miss at late love, that the last quarter-inch could not have slid down like a pane shattering for joy, my old sorrows roll over in their fetching gray failure, sigh, “It’s morning,” and all the silly feelings believe them.
About the Poet:
D. R. James’s latest of nine collections are Flip Requiem (Dos Madres, 2020), Surreal Expulsion (Poetry Box, 2019), and If god were gentle (Dos Madres, 2017), and his micro-chapbook All Her Jazz is free, fun, and printable-for-folding at Origami Poems Project. He lives in the woods near Saugatuck, Michigan.
Leave a Reply