November 2011

Morning Song

                        for Robert’s mother

The loft of leaf joined to limb, the green heat

of noon tucked in the hems of tree, air slow,

its swelter and flow an unwavering clock

of light sifted twig to twig to dull cast

of dusk. And voices say to eat. The moon

is halved. Voices say to rest. Waxing

must wait for the wane. For the barren box, slight

only in earth’s dirt heart. Pinpricks of night wither

at the heron’s rasp. Shapes havoc sullen screens.

Don’t wake me from this wide sea tiding out

to ocean. I follow the whale’s great tail.

I follow in wake the small boy who grips

firm the fin. I will follow him to water’s

deepest night, when from sight lost, form lingers,

then crests the current home, and I too rise.

Lisa Higgs