we call
him
Morning
Report, and he is
frailer
than I remember,
he taps
the
open gourds
with
his cane
tells
me
where
the elk went,
how
many golf balls
he
held, quail
how
many
and how
young, do I
recall
the wildfire
that
peaked the ridge
and the
goats
imported
to clear
the
underbrush—was it
willow?
did I know
a tree
can still burn
underground
creating
a bowl
of
embers, like
a heat
puddle
capable
of cooking
a
javelina, step
carefully—even
days
after
the smoke clears
but the
roses
did so
well
that summer,
the
ashes
do it
daybreak’s
watchman
walks
with
phonetic
patience
past
the Pioneer
Cemetery
eyes
the stones
like a
bachelor
pondering
his
dance card,
building
tomorrow’s
report
should he be
blessed
with one more
morning
with one more
morning
Walking in Gratitude, Poets United
Loved the cadence of this piece and the subject matter. What a character you painted with words.
ReplyDeleteThe last stanza sums up so well the gratitude, the watchfulness, and the observation when one is conscious of the certainty of the end of life. Morning report, indeed. Loved this poem.
ReplyDeleteI love poetry for what it elicits in the mind of the reader
ReplyDeleteI felt cold, I heard tapping, I sensed roses with an ash attached
wow
A wonderful evocation of both man and scene. Thank you.
ReplyDeletedaybreak’s
ReplyDeletewatchman walks
with phonetic
patience - oh that's so visual... can imagine it quite clearly!
The fifth stanza took me back many years, when I lived in the country and we made our own charcoal. I never knew that I would miss the smell of burning wood overheating dirt--the scent of the "heat puddle", I supposed. Thank you for the trip.
ReplyDeleteMay all the Morning Reports of the world be blessed with morning after morning, so that they can continue to share their wisdom with us!
ReplyDelete