Some mornings barrel in head on

careening straight out of the mineshaft

hauling up the night shift and unordered cargo.

Inside the echo of clattering cars

still loaded with yesterday’s steaming slag

a semi-consciousness anticipates

orchestration—some sort of birdsong

to herald the onrush,

expects to crest into firelight

atop the refrain of some cosmic love

song, some sudden insight— and wonders

Where are the flutes?

Where are the violins?

Belying still dusky surfacing seconds

a memory from the candle

flame of an ancient age—

of a piccolo’s shy lilt—

casts a merry shadow along stone

walls dancing about the notion

that we could remain

forever here in this half dream

slide stepping sideways.

Everyone’s intentions are good.

Perhaps settling wouldn’t be so bad.

But then a cardinal’s trill reminds

what has taken lifetimes to learn:

The sun is not called, but summons.

It is we who tunnel underground

seeking fortunes and burrow away

from the gods. Each day’s business

is about nothing less than the soul.

 

By Shelly Norris

From: United States

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