By Gloria Heffernan
Central New York Branch
I worry that perhaps I have written
too many poems about dawn,
too many descriptions of the way
the sunrise paints the hillside gold
for just a few minutes,
and the sense of blessing
when I look up from my coffee
at just the right moment,
and how that light
stays with me all day,
even if it’s cloudy by noon.
I worry that it might start to sound
like a cliché – this fascination
with the squirrels that leap
like miniature gymnasts
through the maple tree
outside my kitchen window,
the way the Blue Jays rise early
to preen on the feeder as if
getting ready for a big date,
the way the deer saunter
the empty expanse of the fairway
that borders our fence
long before the golfers arrive.
I worry about these oft-repeated odes
to early morning until I pick up
the newspaper and see each day’s repetition
of greed and hunger and hatred,
each headline repeating the grievances
of the day before without fear of redundancy,
and I steel myself against despair
by looking out once again
at that golden light that returns like breath—
a lifeline against the darkness.