Morning Like Night
Thick gray fog holds the arm of a tree
In silhouette, all is eerily still.
The sun forgot to rise and the world waits
Like the last drawl of a lullaby
To get up or roll over?
Fog thickens and dims the light persistent.
Not a breath of air is exhaled as
The autumn leaves, too damp to fall, look in
My window waiting, they are waiting.
What might happen next is Apocalypse’s guess.
Each simple twig, part of a grander sketch.
Continued fog as light suffuses.
The black trees hold still as apparitions, hold
Onto the arms of day, this slow day like
A ninety nine year old, crooked, bent
Over a walker, gathering strength to
Push the next step, the next breath, into fog.
And why move forward after all, perhaps
Stillness is in hidden purple asters
We did not plant, and cannot restrain,
Circling round in fog, a syllabus of rains.
Ride with the vibe
To the edge of doom,
Through the door of death,
Just the next room.
Erine Leigh writes daily from Portsmouth NH, to ease our spirits in a troubled world. She once served as her community’s poet laureate, working with children; her project called Poems For Peace.