THIS ROOM OF BRIGHT MORNING

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.