The Present

The Present

1
Radiance on bare limbs,
dawn’s underbelly rises fiery salmon–
Smudge of periwinkle and charcoal
streaks this sky without winter.

2
Glint                           
of silver-tipped wings, buoyant shadows,
heartbeats
against the wafer-thin moon.
Cold rain.                   

3
Sudden cloud of steam,
teakettle’s high-pitched whistle:
here, here, here–
First orders of the day.

4
When I forget to breathe
it startles me to see my breath
in cold morning air.

5
Leafless woods, hushed and thin.
Mourning doves drift slantwise
through dark pines
their heavy wings, unhinged.

6
Away— and gone.
Silence collapses
into the drip                                        
of rain.


M.J.Iuppa        

First published in The Comstock Review.     

                      The early December weather matches the weather of the year I wrote this poem, several years ago.  I'm trying to find Christmas.  Perhaps it's around the corner . . .