When I Greet The Morning

Morning Mary Oliver Salt shining behind its glass cylinder. Milk in a blue bowl. The yellow linoleum. The cat stretching her black body from the pillow. The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture. Then laps the bowl clean. Then wants to go out into the world where she leaps lightly and for no apparent reason across the lawn, then sits, perfectly still, in the grass. I watch her a little while, thinking: what more could I do with wild words? I stand in the cold kitchen, bowing down to her. I stand in the cold kitchen, everything wonderful around me.

Morning ~ by: Mary Oliver

Salt shining behind its glass cylinder.
Milk in a blue bowl. The yellow linoleum.
The cat stretching her black body from the pillow.
The way she makes her curvaceous response to the small, kind gesture.
Then laps the bowl clean.
Then wants to go out into the world
where she leaps lightly and for no apparent reason across the lawn,
then sits, perfectly still, in the grass.
I watch her a little while, thinking:
what more could I do with wild words?
I stand in the cold kitchen, bowing down to her.
I stand in the cold kitchen, everything wonderful around me.

detailsofmylife
When I wake up in the morning I prostrate to the sunrise and extend my arms in adoration. Being older and wiser and much more in kin with mortality, my 46 years of well-being gesticulates my  reverence towards the sky. I sing the respects and praise the handiwork of Divinity, humbly donating the treasures of un·cer·tain·ty for what the day could hold or give or take from me. I am human, bent at the mercy of time and its elements, this is my weary assumption before my stretching prayers touches the ether. 
I close my eyes and feel the earth squish under my feet. Sometimes it is damp and my mind wanders to wonder at the slugs and frogs likely looking upon me. What sight I probably make! Then I smell the mingled scent of blessings!  It assaults my nose; first the damp dew, then the waking grass, then the willowing weeds, then the amorous petals of Dahlia’s or Dama de Noches flirting their fragrant pheromones in the dark of dawn.
Black and beguiling, the sky, amused, looks down at all this, and obliging in humor, plucks a pearl from its million swirls and hurls it across the universe. The stars graze their flicker selves across, blazes in a hurtle and plunges down in a long drawn fading sparkle. Perhaps an errant guilt – riddled teen creeping back home would look up and make of it a strange unidentified phenomenon.  The Universe has a sense of humor. At 4 am in the company of no one, I have joined it. People slumber through the dawn, while nature is at play.

chair2

I know why Mary Oliver writes about her entertaining mornings. I have so much of mine too.