Tag Archives: morning

Ango Morning [3]

sounds of tenzo’s teacups
and pots for oatmeal
filter through the zendo’s morning incense,

through my regret
for the unfolding of
the evening before.

a patch of emerging sunlight
slanted on the old oak floor
receives my prostration.

Advertisements

Ango Morning [2]

winter dawn strains through
slatted windows;
snow sits over the grounds
with no thought of attainment.
tears in the zendo fall,
unencumbered by gravity.

Forty-Something this Summer

It’s supposed to be raining this morning,
but I awake without the sound
of small drops trickling from maple leaves or
spattering the old tin roof
outside our bedroom window –

either would have muffled the clinking of
spoons against the edges of
glass cereal bowls that
filters up from downstairs.

Yet well past the hour when
I often find myself alone,
you are still beside me,
only breathing;

I watch your breasts rise and fall
under the softness of your light blue camisole,
its narrow strap rising over your left shoulder
into a blur of light from the south window.

Your birthday is two days from now –
early forty-something this summer –
I should get up and settle the children’s argument,
plan for a gift.

Cloud Formations

Three poems —
one about the love
in a small bag of pistachios —
and two works of prose
sit unwritten in my notebook;

the spaces aren’t big enough.

Yet, finally,
as the sun rises,
I call my daughter
out to the front steps
where we sit and talk about
yesterday’s and the morning’s
cloud formations
and what they may tell us
about the weather to come.

She watches her own breath
in the cool morning air,
describes the difference between
cirrus and altocumulus,
and asks me my favorite.