After Days of Gray and Cold

Another Rerun from January 2024

Photos by Jonathan Potter ⓒ 2024

7:20 A.M.

    1. (7:20am)
After days of gray and cold
and no sunrise to speak of
my beloved suggested
I should look out the window.
There, I was surprised to see,
the sky was a backdrop of
mauve, pink, tangerine, and gold.

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7:23 A.M.

    2. (7:23am)
I hopped in the car and drove
down Boulevard Saint Charles
where the naked trees greeted
the rising sun with grateful
limbs spread out and their backs turned
to the Tuesday commuters
tinged in golden light and mauve.

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7:26 A.M.

    3. (7:26am)
Then, lost, except a sliver,
I drove till the searchlight sun
pierced the trees from its orange
waiting room in the clinic
of solar psychology,
spreading a carpet of light
across the icy river.

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7:27 A.M.

    4. (7:27am)
The sun alive and alert
above the far horizon,
a spear of cloudlight through it,
a yellow beret atop
its jaunty head, a jumble
of orange shadows and light
like layers of a dessert.

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7:28 A.M.

    5. (7:28am)
A little further along
I come to the memory
of summer where the pilings
of the yacht club meet the piles
of stuff and things with nowhere
to be stowed except in dreams
of flying south in a song.

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7:29 A.M.

    6. (7:29am)
The old convent on a point
stuck out into the flowing
river now mostly frozen
reminds me of a time I tried
my hand at monastic life.
But the climax of the sun
risen there I now anoint. 

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7:29 A.M.

    7. (7:30am)
The lion's mane of the sun
holds this moment together.
The turbulence of the joy
above and the love below,
with purple waves breathing in
the wash of umber-orange
everything and everyone.

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