helping the morning
A woman I admire and am very grateful to have as a friend sent this poem in the mail to me today. On a day when I was fighting my own personal demons, it was balm to my soul.
I thought you might like to read it, too.
Helping the Morning
After the graveside, after the ride home, after
a winter of drought, the chain
and padlock on my heart,
morning shows up at my bedside,
almost too late, like a big sister
holding a glass of water
and I drink, glancing through the window
at the tiny red barn flung
into the lap of the brown valley below.
I am amazed at the silent, terrible wonder
of my health. I am giddy at the lack of war.
I want to help in the morning.
I pray the bedpost, the windowpanes.
I put our children on two doorknobs,
our sick friends in mirrors.
Like the aperature of a camera, the morning opens
and keeps opening until the room is filled
with rosy light and I could believe
anything: that grass might turn green again,
that cloud the size of my hand
might swell, might drift in, bringing rain.
by Jeanne Murray Walker
I thought you might like to read it, too.
Helping the Morning
After the graveside, after the ride home, after
a winter of drought, the chain
and padlock on my heart,
morning shows up at my bedside,
almost too late, like a big sister
holding a glass of water
and I drink, glancing through the window
at the tiny red barn flung
into the lap of the brown valley below.
I am amazed at the silent, terrible wonder
of my health. I am giddy at the lack of war.
I want to help in the morning.
I pray the bedpost, the windowpanes.
I put our children on two doorknobs,
our sick friends in mirrors.
Like the aperature of a camera, the morning opens
and keeps opening until the room is filled
with rosy light and I could believe
anything: that grass might turn green again,
that cloud the size of my hand
might swell, might drift in, bringing rain.
by Jeanne Murray Walker