To wake before the birds
a secret pleasure,
an undeserved reward.
The dream fragments
I woke from
begin to fade.
A tarnished light,
diffuse, steamy, arrives
so gradually I hardly noticed.
Last night’s rain
soaked the ground, filled
the birdbaths. The earth still
spins, still revolves
around the sun. Our sun.
Overlooked everyday miracles.
Coffee and steamed milk,
a notebook, a pen.
My grandmother’s shawl
around my shoulders,
her mantle clock.
When it chimes
I close my eyes.
Open them to another
day of not-knowing.
—
Debra Kaufman’s latest poetry collection is Outwalking the Shadow. Previous books are God Shattered, Delicate Thefts, The Next Moment, and A Certain Light. She has written many monologues and short plays and five full-length plays, most recently Seeing Light. She lives in North Carolina.
