Even in new homes, morning has old narratives
formed by other mornings,
by schedules, by delays.
So I approach the day as though it’s been before,
as though
its parameters are fixed,
its possibilities known.
Adam beheld the first sunrise,
called himself inventor. I
almost ignore the miracle, too entangled
in strands of ground to see sky,
until
a scattering spool
of morning-pink cloud-thread
entwines my eye.
Not a word, as such,
but a message nonetheless,
a promise in this time of dust:
If this is how I hold the clouds,
then how much more…
And I am caught:
a moment between ash and new birth.
New Adam knows dust
and I am consoled in this knowledge.
The Consolations of Writing 