27 April 2012

Friday Morning, 5 a.m.

It is Friday morning, 5 a.m. There is an early Simon and Garfunkel album entitled Wednesday Morning 3 a.m. It contains a few songs by Paul Simon, including “Sound of Silence,” but mostly it contains traditional folk songs or songs sounding traditional folk. I don’t know why it is titled Wednesday Morning 3 a.m. Its idealism speaks perhaps to a later hour. Or maybe an earlier one.
It is still very dark at 5 a.m., and this morning the clouds obscure the light of the stars. It is very quiet except for the sound of single bird who, too, has arisen early. The bird is singing. No one returns the call to awaken.There is a wonderful poem by Robert Francis entitled “Summons.” I learned it fifty years ago.

Keep me from going to sleep too soon

Or if I go to sleep too soon

Come wake me up. Come any hour

Of night. Come whistling up the road.

Stomp on the porch. Bang on the door.

Make me get out of bed and come

And let you in and light a light.

Tell me the northern lights are on

And make me look. Or tell me clouds

Are doing something to the moon
They never did before, and show me.

See that I see. Talk to me till
I'm half as wide awake as you

And start to dress wondering why

I ever went to bed at all.

Tell me the walking is superb.

Not only tell me but persuade me.

You know I'm not too hard persuaded.
I have always felt that the poet spoke directly to me. It is my morning poem.
     Outside of my door, the black cat awaits its breakfast. I put the (to me) foul smelling soft bits of meat or fish into its bowl and fill a second with hard food and set both underneath the table I had placed outside the cabin to keep the elements from the food. The cat has come to trust me, I think. I believe he is right to trust me.
     It is now very quiet, and the quiet is soothing.  The only sound is the click of the keyboard keys and my own sniffling. The coffee is strong and hot; and all about me lie the books I read. On the various desks (there are actually four desks out here!) papers are strewn about and on the surfaces lie pens and sharpened pencils. Wherever I move about out here I am prepared.
     Thoreau writes that that day dawns only to which we are awake. And in this early morning hour I do feel awake and the day dawns out of my windows. The black sky turns first steely blue and then not too gradually lightens and becomes day.
     I do love the morning. My life has led me to awaken early and it has always been my fortune to greet the dawn. It is always perfect. On the wall before me are picture postcards of Henry David Thoreau and Walt Whitman: I associate both with the morning and I admire their freedom. Today I will not plant beans, but I will inevitably contradict myself.
     Nothing gold can stay, but for awhile, there is gold.


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