Changing the View of the Day
A poem
I woke up early
It’s dark at 5 am now, in the waning months of the year.
The time change next week will help,
Briefly,
One more hour of sleep in the cold to stave off the darkness.
This morning, I: fed the pets, started laundry, walked to the gym.
In the cold, the grass is outlined silver
And the chickens’ water froze over, overnight.
The sky was also frozen in garden to the parking lot:
The black-and-white stippled pattern of the clouds
Just touched
With an eastern edge of melting blue.
I left for the bus on time
Always a tiny miracle.
The leaves are turning a little late this year,
Or at least I think they’re hanging on longer.
When it’s green, I don’t notice the cathedral ceiling
The oaks, maples, catalpas make of my street.
But this time of year? Zounds.
It never fails to astound.
I interrupted my walk
With a detour through an old churchyard
That felt like a shortcut, even though the distance
Was probably the same.
It felt important, on the way to Friday morning coffee,
To jump aside from the students —
On their way to class —
And look at something ancient
And noteworthy.
The metal gates looked like doors to Narnia,
But they let out on a parking lot.
I knew they would.
I passed a tree
On the way into my building.
Like the street cathedrals, I’d never noticed it green.
It glows, now, yellow-peach-pink-orange,
A new flame paper
Or a peace rose, blooming.
I took a picture, but it doesn’t do it justice.
I get nostalgic
In the fall,
Especially as the dark gets thicker.
There’s no more meaning to it than the ripening wheat.
No less meaning either.
This time feels interstitial, but we go through it.
