Another Morning 

 

They visited me this morning,

in the small hours

before the sun,

in the first minutes

when the birds stir.

 

They were just outside

my window,

gently gathered,

sitting high in the branches

of the trees.

 

The milled maple skin,

the brown, grey-green

and blue eyes,

of my long gone kin.

 

I was awake,

so no dream

can claim author.

 

I was sober

as coffee in the kettle,

and no wine’s

red enough

to mischief such events.

 

They were

all-together lovely,

lean and handsome,

dressed as if

they took their affection

for one another

seriously.

 

I could smell the pie,

rhubarb and strawberry

perhaps.

 

I could hear their voices,

a gentle pouring lilt

of molasses.

 

I could see my Granpa,

my Bumpa,

as he stood nimbly,

in the tender

upper reaches of the tree.

 

As day’s first light

touched his face,

he licked his lips,

he raised his trombone,

and blew

three humble notes

into the awakening.

 

 

I am sorry,

but that was all,

that is where it ends.

 

They were gone,

my kin from the branches,

climbed down

and back to earth.

 

They left no caution,

no encouragement,

no insight.

 

They simply left me

 

another morning.