Morning Light
Susan E. Bartlett 2019
I awaken
in a room the color of butter
in a house
surrounded by live Oaks
and dead
Southern poets
Early morning light
like spilled lemonade
leaks between the slats
of dusty shutters
pools in corners
flows languidly under
the half-closed door
my feet
still cocooned in summer damp sheets
stretch toward the path the light has taken
As if it
will lead back
to a time
a space
a place
where this light lived a different life
When
it was as feral and intense
as childhood
There were
three hundred and sixty degrees of it then
An open promise
terrifying in its boundlessness
Electrifying
Life
Colors sizzling and popping in it
Colors
that should never have met
smashing against each other
in a fauvist landscape
Wild
disparate shades
writhing and dancing
before
marrying and settling down
Memories chase the light
swarm with it
like bees following
an abdicating queen
Morning light rediscovered
Is as delicious to the mind
as the taste of the first raspberry of the season
is to the tongue
It catapults you into a summer day
breakfast half swallowed
Screen door slamming your good-bye
barefooted
You leap two steps at a time
to land you on the pathway to delicious freedom
To dirt and gravel roads
worn smooth by tires and running feet
and dappled by puddles of sun
and shade
You run hop-scotch fashion to avoid sharp stones
to wild blackberry bushes
and creeks running cool and fast
You run with the light
until it is no more
Summer day duty done
Eyes closed
the day plays again
like a loop of film
until you sleep
and sleep
And awaken in a room
the color of butter
In a house surrounded by live oaks
and dead
Southern poets