Friday, February 5, 2016

good morning

Bear Jaw

Mornings I stand at this window
sipping dawn black, coffee fogging
the image of the Blessed Virgin
bestowing grace, softening the first hard
edges of the day, blurring the dog out
combing the yard for clues to a winter
gone missing, hounding a cold case or
just going through the motions mornings

when I palm the bear jaw we found
after all night rain on Big Bay de Noc,
half smile plucked from the window sill
in half-light reliving the day, your red boots,
smashing mirrors of standing water, still
finding your feet and the bear jaw, an ivory
stave working free of old rail bed torte,

mornings mottled gray like the time
we paid a visit to Jim Rooks, bear jaw
clutched in your hand, solitary canine
rattling in the socket, huddled molars,
the cross-section saw cut smooth beneath
his probing finger, clues in a mystery,
one of our first, elevated by time to talisman
that still hums in my hand mornings,
alone by this window, dawn working
free of the clutching fingers of night. 

1 comment:

  1. I remember it well. We were soaked to the skin.