Song of Morning

The fire’s gone out
But the sun has risen.
I did not care for it,
Feeding it only old wood
That flames quick and leaves cold
White powdered ash.

Silence in the morning,
The sun is risen.
There will be cleaning today
And disposing of the dead.

How does the young tree look,
The young tree with one leaf,
After two more winters here?

It does not say, but moves
Rigid tips of budding limbs
Against the forest green.

It does not say, but joins
The tall grass and little leaves
Tugging through the snow.

A shadow has fallen
On the old books on the shelf.
The light slant and filtered—
Perceptions of movement.

The shadow is fallen.

Outside, in the sun, all moves
And all rests, silent.

I rise to go: muted red
flaming into whitened gold.