Mornings

1. McLean (1987)

My father wore brown suits
and I wear brown.
One hundred teabags carry me
to March.

I shower, turn up heat,
heat water, shave,
commune with saintly Annie,
sit her chair
and think how straight she sat:
two feet like flatirons flat
upon the floor.

The furnace blows its wind.
The closed blinds knock.
I check the temperature outside,
rewind the clock,
add sugar to my cup,
begin to type.

Later I make the lunches.

2. Ruth Street (1950)

My father got up early,
made his tea
or coffee when still young.
He read and prayed.
I till the family garden.

I choose dawn
to do my weeding, watering,
tie plants up,
protect the beans from rabbits.

Tall and gaunt,
my three-prong cultivator on one wheel
does little more than scratch,
still it turns up
some arrowheads worth keeping;
maybe two or three each year.

I wash and keep them polished
in a cup.

3. College Ravine (1952)

And once I found a stone axe in a tree.
The branch where it lay was hollow,
just enough
that grasping fingers noticed.

It was cold.

I built a fire inside a hollow tree,
hung socks on a branch to dry.
The fire made wet pants steam.
My wet shoes smoked.
I rubbed the axe and chanted
while wet things dried.
Three dormant mice dropped down,
eyes spouting flame.
The heat turned snow to water,
soil to mud.
The damp wood made a hissing.

In the woods
behind me, still untracked,
crows called my name.
The poems I write change nothing,
but I change.