Scott G. Brooks
THIS ROOM OF BRIGHT MORNING
This room of bright morning,
Full of the drift come down from
The ways we have learned to speak with one
And another. Oh yes, there were times
When one could stand upon the ramparts,
Whistling the rain down the windows, not
Caring what might be blown in to our
Sad feet. Now, it seems things are different.
The cat crosses the alley. It has no mind
For the dealings of man. It has
Seen the light of oceans of fish. They pour
Past its nose and fill the doorways of the piers
With a kind of knowledge you and I can only
Dream of; a wishing for the smells of our ancestors.
Oh sweet burden of standing this way
Before the morning. Full of each other, the way
We want to be, I look out past the rain and its pools,
Past the drift of song caught in the puddles. I am
Here with you once again. We seem to understand
The language all this world noise makes.
It has a clarity known only to those who have
Loved a long time. I do not recall any time ever
Being like this one. Perhaps I am mistaken.
Perhaps this music is only the sound of being
Ignorantly profound, listen to the heart.