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Morgan Michaels


Aubade


It's chilly. Behind the blind (if we could view it)
the sky's a murky midnight blue
and cirrhus-streaked, with few
if any, stars shining through it;

till on comes the yellow-pink dispute
of dark and quickening light
that even the tightest lid cannot refute,
and with surprising logic, light outreasons

dark.Through the dusty louvers the sun tries
its lever of incandescent light.
Between my lids it pries and pries
urging Awaken! , or, if you prefer, Get up!

Eyed wide, one could see it hurtling in at
well, just the speed of light, but shut
one can feel its pulse, nevertheless, for as gas has mass,
Light definitely has heft,

and at my lids, like a jilted friend
or a creditor, raps and raps. Where
is it now, my dream, warmly affable, that lately
swang (astride its hippogriff) me from the rainbow's end

to fields Elysian; and that, offended,
dove back down its cloudy burrow
Gone like a weasel's tail, like the bluish snake, that long ago
upon a certain hour, swam between my feet

and beyond, trembling the unkempt lawn.
Where is that dream I need to recall
to share with therapist, friend, or
anyone wishing to hear and share?

Gone, gone, and gone
as when in the pre-dawn air
potter's pictures, jostled, disappear-
shattering the pot with the potter.

Submitted: Sunday, December 08, 2013
Edited: Monday, December 09, 2013
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