Sunday, May 06, 2012

Your Sunday Poem

Did you see the moon last night?  And early this morning?  Huge.  Gorgeous.  So near to earth, as if to peek down to say hello. Yesterday morning the air was like spring champagne.  This morning the smell of the sea has returned. It is still except for the faint sound of a rooster waking up the neighborhood a few blocks away.   This poem is by Billy Collins from his book, "Nine Horses."


If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.


Alon Perlman said...

It was big and round and harshly monochromatic last night. You saw it early this morning. What colors was it and what did the dogs say to it?
Have a great that kind of day.

Churadogs said...

Pale ivory in the early a.m. And the dog's said nothing. They were still lolling about, dozing.