Morning Fancies

I.

There!
There he is
visible only from
the corner of my eye
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright
striding across the morning sky
hunched shoulders in pounce mode
sunlight and clouds creating the pattern
the menace of meaning whenever there is
a tiger stalking the sky – I am no Pi (pie?), sir,
and this is not my life – why are tigers always so . . . hungry?

II.

the crackle and creak
and wrangle and break
that is the sound of my body
in the morning
awakens the birds
I’ll be quieter tomorrow,
I whisper them as I arise

III.
I enjoy a warm cup of morning fog
with the start of my day
here in mountain retreat
where mist settles into
mountain’s belly
and offers itself up
with each new-day mantra –
drink me –

Fog

76. Fog

THE fog comes  

on little cat feet.  

  

It sits looking  

over harbor and city  

on silent haunches         

and then moves on

From Shenandoah Mountain

I have always loved Carl Sandburg’s poem about fog, I suppose because I have always loved the fog.

I find quiet mystery in the fog, whether it’s driving in and out of the soupy mists in these mountains or walking the quad at Princeton Seminary late at night imagining the long-coated stranger of pulp fiction emerging from the shrouded backbrop of its density or seeing a tendril of chimney smoke, thick enough to stand out against the fog at the magical dusk hour in these high hills I now call home.

Somehow I cling to the awe of the child who sees not danger but wonder in what she cannot see behind.

The fog slows and stills me and even slow-moving cars become friends rather than obstacles, as their welcome red tail lights show the way home.