Two mugs of milky tea
In the morning
Waiting for the inspiration
of the minutely marvelous to take hold
I try to catch the dream
That had followed me
back into sleep this morning
before I reopened my eyes
to watch the mist unfold over
that now so familiar meeting
of two hills
Where trees, some dark,
some light with spring’s still
clinging emeralds
Flow down the curves
of two of earth’s ample breasts
To meet where the heart beats quietly
In the middle
of that soft, dark-pined chest
The dream flows in mists
Of thought
That quickly drift in the breeze
of morning’s sun
The feeling of it catches behind
my eyes
Its fine thread elusive
A skein unwinding much too fast
to catch the end and
It is gone.
There is a brief time of sun now
Between the rains
That have become
the norm of May
In this, the beginning of
mighty mountains.
There is a moment
Of strangely marvelous
bright green peace
while the neighborhood cat
prowls the lawn
and pounces suddenly
hoping it has caught the mouse
that in reality moved
much too quickly to be trapped.
Paws outstretched, he waits
a moment to be sure
and then moves on, undeterred
by any shame
to find another small scratching
somewhere in the grass.
Yet soon the green begins to dim
As the tall bright clouds
with inner souls of darkness
Rise up in majestic
dreamlike languor, merging here and there
to diminish whatever space of blue
remains.
One never knows, they say,
here in the mountains,
Whether the clouds
will finally bring
the heavy streams of rain,
or pass over, in their own time,
Outside of our time
With only their sad greyness
that we retain
as some strange feeling
of unease
Left as if by some fleeting
and yet haunting
dream.
