August 11: Morning Prelude

August 11, 2017

Outside, a chorus of birds,
not bobolinks, but yellow-rumped warblers,
and the cooing of mourning doves, mated for life.

Inside, a man I love in the shower,
the rush of water, low hum of his lather and scrub,
his unbird-like music.

What I hope for: A day green as new-minted
money. No harm to my children.
My friend’s illness not cancer.
The air clean and fresh as a man after a shower.

I make a plan: Ginger tea.
A lined tablet. Something in my head
gushing like a geyser.

Later: A reliable car.
A blue road.
A lodestar.

Beyond the road, on one side, sunflowers,
their faces baked brown and bonneted in yellow,
like children in costumes dancing in a field
buzzing with bumblebees.

On the other side, row after row of corn,
each stalk erect and watching the children.
The sky above blue and all around
the breathable air, fresh as soap.

Diane Lockward

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