The sound of awakening
in a century old house–
to the tune of coffee brewing
and the smell of dew breaking with the dawn–
is an orchestra of new life.
I gather myself at the oatmeal waiting for me on the stove,
in the ancient gullet of a micaceous pot,
and shake myself from sleep.
The dogs play in the din
of the mountain quiet.
I wonder if the kittens born a week ago
under the wood pile have enough to eat.
I spoon myself breakfast
and sit down and stay
in the white morning light.
I think about the earth–
primal and still–
and this house built
with mud long before the idea of me
was whispered into waiting thought.
Quietude is my garment,
and I am rapt in thought.
What else is there to do on such a morning,
but to be still and listen?