Morning Meditation (What The Bats Told Me)

“How we long for morning!” is what coffee sings To us with aromatic melodies. How tissue soft it is; how cat-like it stretches, This colorful ribbon that is worn around the Neck of the day. We remember things: like how to throw a curve ball – Toothy seams touching fingers callused by rawhide. Like a curveball, the day spins away from us, Once it is released, once it is pitched. Morning is the empty glass bottle, all angles And curves that sits with the patience of a garden, Wild with the kind of wanting that we do not Usually carry around in our wallets Like pictures of our family. Desirous as a hairpin that needs to control; Searing as dry ice in its stillness; As insistent as a cell phone. Even the bats above, turning in for the day, know That light has a serrated edge like a quarter With which it tries to grip the slippery dark And push it down. We may doubt everything else about our lives But never how the morning is ours – How we belong to it – How right it is to love the felt part of the day Before it turns on us. M C Biegner 9/2004