Friday, June 17, 2011


I wake up mornings now counting
what’s left of my constancies, like coins
in a child’s piggybank. That everything
is in a constant flux is itself constant.
But I stay grateful for the same sun
rising over the mountain ridge at cockcrow.
At sundown, I chirp with the swallows
as they perch to wait for that same sun.
My yesterdays and tomorrows are twin
pictures of what was and will be or might
have been, like the ebb tide that will still
be there erasing footprints left on the sand.
Will there be old footprints there again?
It is a rhythm of a quiet watch over how
soon the death we have been born with
will pay its final visit. Quite like a cricket’s
chant describes the kind of day I’ll have,
after my tea, after all the teas of my life.
—Albert B. Casuga

Prompt: At 8:47, the sun puts in its first appearance. The cricket in my garden—the only weather forecast I follow—doesn’t miss a beat.---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 06-17-11

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