Although the brightness brought them pleasure,
My grandparents looked differently at sunrise.
It was a signal of their work and an already wakened mind,
time-stamped for breakfast.
How long have we been waking in these fields?
The mules will not bay just yet, but the cast iron echoes
in sizzles of morning and wrung chickens, filleted squirrels.
Waking from a sleep so deep I thought I was gone,
There it is - the light in subtle March -
it rises in hues that sing of spring and the birth
of colts and calves outside my city.
Pinkish a.m. chirps its resonance into me, into thudding
hardwood feet and the monotony and despair of office work,
and the act of looking for it - and still nothing. Always nothing.
Perhaps I am not cut out for this.
I pray for some tilling and a big, round country bottom,
a harder life of dirt than stone, than concrete people.
I long for my own and daydream of a different morning,
one sopped up with rural ancient sunrise.