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Saturday or Sunday Morning, Early


This morning, I left our bed early.
You know how, with the early sun and silence,
my mind begins to spin like that mysterious machine
at the carnival which makes cotton candy.
I try to not disturb you, but I imagine you alone,
wandering in some storied forest with only
the lights of a big moon to suggest your steps.
Wherever you are, as our cats circle the room
stepping across clouds, I cannot be. Still,
you always tell me that you know when I am gone.

But I am never gone.

That night which folded us together has
more secrets to share with you, And I am
awake, in the company of many bushels of thoughts;
Conversations I will have, poems and letters
needing to be written, and many things I placed
on my nightstand just before I shut out the light
and turned to cradle you in that rich velvet.
This morning, I am in your chair, playing out
all the many cards of my life. The air, the piano
and our cats are all still and I am listening, as I do,
for you to call out in your sleepy voice and let me know
That you have returned.


Daniel Thomas Moran



"The youth gets together his materials to build a bridge to the moon, or, perchance, a palace or temple on the earth, and, at length the middle-aged man concludes to build a wood-shed with them."

-Henry David Thoreau


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