What Wild Dawns There Were
What wild dawns there were
in our first years here
when we would run outdoors naked
to pee in the long grass behind the house
and see over the hills such streamers
such banners of fire and blue (the blue
that is Lilith to full day’s honest Eve) –
What feathers of gold under the morning star
we saw from dazed eyes before
stumbling back to bed chilled with dew
to sleep till the sun was high!
Now if we wake early
we don’t go outdoors – or I don’t –
and you if you do go
rarely call me to see the day break.
I watch the dawn through glass: this year
only cloudless flushes of light, paleness
slowly turning to rose,
and fading subdued.
We have not spoken of these tired
risings of the sun.
A Time Past
The old wooden steps to the front door
where I was sitting that fall morning
when you came downstairs, just awake,
and my joy at sight of you (emerging
into golden day—
the dew almost frost)
pulled me to my feet to tell you
how much I loved you:
those wooden steps
are gone now, decayed
replaced with granite,
hard, gray, and handsome.
The old steps live
only in me:
my feet and thighs
remember them, and my hands
still feel their splinters.
Everything else about and around that house
brings memories of others—of marriage,
of my son. And the steps do too: I recall
sitting there with my friend and her little son who died,
or was it the second one who lives and thrives?
And sitting there ‘in my life,’ often, alone or with my husband.
Yet that one instant,
your cheerful, unafraid, youthful, ‘I love you too,’
the quiet broken by no bird, no cricket, gold leaves
spinning in silence down without
any breeze to blow them,
is what twines itself
in my head and body across those slabs of wood
that were warm, ancient, and now
wait somewhere to be burnt.