he Tastes of Morning
A Pewee and a Bunting
just over there, in the high
branches of the neighbor’s
tree - just out of sight.
A sampling of words
going this way and that
down sentences that
may or may not come to be.
A chime in the wind
tinkling and gonging out
notes that lull me into more
birdsong just beyond view.
So many broken threads
line the walls of morning.
Each a possibility of Blake’s
winding ball of Jerusalem.
Perhaps Frost’s road not
taken was one of the many
tastes of morning that assail
us - each a possibility.
I’ll take these all on my
walk, and look for something
on which to dwell, before the
sun rises and I need to look busy.
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