POEM - Morning Meditation (What The Bats Told Me)
To me in aromatic melodies.
Soft as tissue, cat-like as it stretches
Through arbor vitae, stiff as royal guards,
This colorful ribbon that is worn around the
Neck of the day.
We remember things like how to throw a curve ball –
The toothy seams touching callused fingers, roughed by rawhide.
Like a curveball, the day spins away from us,
Morning is the empty glass bottle, all angles
And curves that sits with the patience of a garden,
Wild with the kind of wanting that we do not
Usually carry around in our wallets
Like pictures of our family.
Desirous as a hairpin that needs to control,
As insistent as a cell phone.
Even the bats above, turning in for the day, know
That light has a serrated edge like a quarter
With which it tries to grip the slippery dark
And push it down.
We may doubt everything else about our lives
But never how the morning is ours –
How we belong to it –
How right it is to love the felt part of the day
Before it turns on us.
M C Biegner