Sunday Morning

I woke early this morning, sat in front of the window and watched the clouds sneak into the valley. As I glanced down to read the paper I noticed a darkening and then a quickening in the corner of my eye, the sky let loose with heavy flakes of snow. There are inches upon inches and it confuses my sense of spring. We walked in the sunlight yesterday and watched the boys skate as the setting glow warmed our faces. The voice in my head is hollowed by trepidation, change is instantaneous and unexpected. Every morning I hope there is something familiar and everlasting to count on.

Morning Poem

Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches —
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead —
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging —

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted —

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.

–Mary Oliver

(via slowmuse)