MORNING
There is (to be told) no glare in the
sky this morning. The gray man's
own dulcimer light shines, with only the
most faint and distant reddish tinge to the
clouds in the heavens above - which
aren't really that, you see, for it's always
been thought that 'Heaven' (and even
then at that) was always far above the sky.
But anyway, I give this sallow grayness
credit. The leaves of the paper birch -
still quite green, an upland tree - are heavy
before the morning sky and massive (it
seems)...right here, where someone is
dragging a broom. The new light tries
to come forth, with birds now
just beginning to sing.
There is (to be told) no glare in the
sky this morning. The gray man's
own dulcimer light shines, with only the
most faint and distant reddish tinge to the
clouds in the heavens above - which
aren't really that, you see, for it's always
been thought that 'Heaven' (and even
then at that) was always far above the sky.
But anyway, I give this sallow grayness
credit. The leaves of the paper birch -
still quite green, an upland tree - are heavy
before the morning sky and massive (it
seems)...right here, where someone is
dragging a broom. The new light tries
to come forth, with birds now
just beginning to sing.
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