Six a.m. on February Twelfth

The day you rise to light, 

shadow-trees mark the brightening.

Beyond the window of a sleeping room,

a demarcation,

snow to rock, brush to sky,

back lit to the west,

clouds feather pink, 

then grey.

In the kitchen

incandescent bulbs

flame the action of morning.

Replicated in glass,

they color the outside black.

You know though, to look behind,

past the darkened living room,

through a picture window,

where ashen light grows warmer,

the street, the stonewalls visible.

An onlooker to pastel morning,

you rejoice in the verdict,

a grateful witness

to nature's rhythm, 

the relief of lengthening days.

Early Delivery II

When I scheduled an 8:00 a.m. eye doctor’s appointment in the city for this week, I forgot how early I’d have to get up to catch a train.  Now that we are “empty-nesters,” I sleep long past my husband, who is out of the house before sunup.  But between the late moon filtering its vintage light through our uncovered picture window, and dreams that pried me awake, I climbed out of bed at 5:30 that day. I strolled down the dark driveway to pick up the newspaper about 15 minutes later. 

Standing by the street, on a cold but bearable February morning, I remembered a day a year ago, when the weather was more seasonal than now.  That was probably the last time I took the same walk in the dark. Later I wrote about the quiet.

This time on that brief trip, once again the soft swish of distant cars on the state road supplied the only noise on a morning when sound arrived packaged in soft wool.  I stood in the windless dawn, listening to the absences; the lack of birds, the stillness in the trees, then turned to encounter a fat moon casting a phantom light from above the garage, where it hovered like a ghost to the sunrise that would appear in short minutes. 

  

Swinging the rolled newspaper as I took slow steps up to the house, I drank in slivers of sound, the silver of light, grateful to have stumbled upon this frozen moment—a reminder that sometimes the best there is, ends up being everything that is not.

Hey all, I've just joined the Rach Writes Platform Building Campaign.  Although I've never formally joined  before, I did participate in some of her prompts and found them fun and wonderful in regard to improving my writing.  If you'd like a challenge, check it out here.

Shades of Gray

Note to self: Check the weather forecast before you get up pre-dawn on an 18-degree morning to photograph the sunrise.

Keep in mind though, that if you skip it due to overcast skies, you’ll miss the pinprick beacon as the steadfast lighthouse blinks over the shoulder of an ice-covered lobster boat.

 
 

You will fail to record the wall of snow-brushed granite stooping--a heaving monster bearing down on an vacant boat chandlery.

 

The Christmas tree on the common, still lit at on January 14, will flicker unnoticed, as will the way the moss-covered stones in the cemetery overlooking the water appear to have marched in from the sea.

Yellowing rock walls guarding the slushy landscape of the inner harbor will stand alone and fifty yards down an empty road, the high-tide-flooded marshes, bled of all color will ripple unseen.

By all means, sleep in.  Just recognize that when you do, these images will merge into moments passed—the blended splendor of one frozen morning, never captured—or shared.


Happy Friday all.  How is winter taking shape in your part of the world?