Morning on the River
I trace familiar steps planted in morning walks from every yesterday
The walk waits my coming in knowledge that I will not change my way
Yet, I would not belittle my morning treasure by calling it routine
Each walk reveals the difference in things which merely appear the same
Sameness I think, is the consequence of an indecent detachment
Somewhat like a fine meal which one refuses the necessary time to savor
Or a good wine which is used to quench a thirst instead of waking the palette
My river winds along my walk and appears, I suppose, to never change
But its inhabitants color its sameness never the same at all
Morning light comes each day in varied hues reflected on the surface
the river mirrors a change of clothes since yesterday
The high cirrus linger silently filtering the rising of the morning light
The cumulus of yesterday diffused and splashed the light indiscriminately
I am not partial to her dress, each change steals a measure of my breath
The trees, like individual cathedrals, seem to stand each day, the same
But they too invite the cloud, the light and the season to change their dress
The sun parts their branches, paints their shadowed souls upon a changing ground
The clouds shift shade and light like a painter moving color across the canvas
Yesterday the breeze was more subdued and the branches held their color
Today the colors dance with a breeze with little purpose, except to dance
Today they dance a waltz, but I have seen, at times, the madness in a tango
Yesterday Canadian geese orchestrated the music for my early pilgrimage
Today, ducks splash feverishly along eddied banks I did not notice yesterday
Sometimes the squirrels chatter from towering conifers mirrored on the water
Otters go about their business and fish leap at every winged sacrifice
I am undetached and captured by a surrounding that is forever different
Routine is surrender, a dying in ourselves, a blindness that settles in our souls
Whatever we see or whatever we hear is only ourselves, reflected in where we are.
